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1913 









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THE GREAT ADVENTURE 



THE 
GREAT ADVENTURE 

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 

^^^^^^ ARNOLD BENNETT 

Author of "The Old Wives' Tales" "The 

Honeymoon," "Buried Alive," 

Co-author of "Milestones" 



GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 






Copyright, 1913 
By George H. Doran Company 



(C)C1,D 32762 



CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY 

Ilam Carve An illustrious painter. 

Albert Shawn Ham's valet. 

Dr. Pascoe 

Edward Horning Doctor's assistant. 

Cyrus Carve Ham's cousin, a city auc- 
tioneer. 

Father Looe A Catholic priest. 

Peter Horning A journalist. 

Ebag .A picture dealer. 

John Shawn A curate. 

James Shawn His brother, a curate. 

Lord Leonard Alcar. . . . 

Texel An American millionaire. 

A Waiter 

A Page 

A Servant 

Janet Cannot A widow. 

Mrs. Albert Shawn .... 

Honoria Looe Sister of Father Looe. 



SCENES IN THE PLAY 

ACT I 

Room in Ham Carve's house, 126 Redcliffe Gar- 
dens. 

ACT II 

Private Room at the Grand Babylon Hotel. 

ACT III 

Janet's Sitting-room, at Werter Road, Putney. 

ACT IV 

Lord Leonard Alcar's study. Grosvenor Gar- 
dens. 
\ • 

SPECIAL NOTE 

Each act is divided into two scenes, separated 
by a passage of time more or less short. The 
passage of time is indicated by lowering the cur- 
tain for a few moments. No change of scenery 
is involved. 



NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT I 

Ilam Carve. Aged 45. One of the best known 
painters in Europe. Like all first-class artists, 
he combines marked and subtle personal distinc- 
tion with boyishness and impulsiveness. All his 
gestures are invariably distinguished, but his de- 
meanour varies from the very dignified to the 
childlike. An egoist, of course, but a persuasive 
one. Charming in manner ; but sometimes fretful. 
For everything outside his art he is always de- 
pending on someone else, and he takes it for 
granted that people will sympathise with him. 
Timid, confiding; and naive in unimportant mat- 
ters. Well but carelessly dressed. 

Albert Shawn. Aged 45. His valet. In appear- 
ance he vulgarly resembles his master. 

Cyrus Carve. Aged 45. His cousin. The success- 
ful City auctioneer of real estate. Rude. Thick- 
skinned. No fine perceptions whatever. As ugly 
as possible. 

Dr. Pascoe. The Redcliffe Gardens general prac- 
titioner. Aged 50. Overworked. Experienced. 
His formal politeness masks cynicism. But in a 
prolonged conversation the sympathetic natural 
human being will come out. Usually curt in de- 
meanour. 

Edward Horning. Aged 30. Dr. Pascoe's assist- 
ant. Somewhat dull and shabby. 

Janet Cannot. Aged 32. Widow. She belongs by 
birth and marriage to the lower-middle class. 
Her dress is not expensive, but is natty and 
shows a faint originality. Her personality and 
demeanour are characterised by calm, shrewd 
coramonsense, and great persuasive charm. Her 



NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT I 

voice and her gestures cajole. She will make 
" dry " and even cutting remarks in a tone that 
robs them of offence. She is never disturbed, 
never afraid that she will be unequal to any sit- 
uation that may arise. She is usually very frank 
and very straightforward, despising conventional 
pretences. Not a cockney accent, nor a Belgravia 
accent; rather an honest midland accent. 



THE 
GREAT ADVENTURE 

ACT I 

Scene. — Front -room on ground -floor at 1^6 Red- 
cliff e Gardens. An apartment furnished 
richly hut in an old-fashioned way. Fine pic- 
tures. Large furniture {Sofa near centre). 
General air of neglect and dustiness. Car- 
pet half-laid. Trunks and hags lying about 
in corners, some opened. Men's wearing ap- 
parel exposed. Mantelpiece (r) in disor- 
der. At hack double doors (ajar) leading 
to anotlier room. Door l leading to hall and 
front door. 
Scene I : 

Time.- — Evening in August. 

Albert Shawn is reclining on the sofa, fully 
dressed, hut obviously ill; an overcoat has 
been drawn over his legs, 

A conspicuous object is a magnificent light 
purple dressing-gown thrown across a chair. 

Door bangs, off. Enter Ham Carve, l., in his 
shirt sleeves, hurriedly. Shawn feebly tries 
to get up. 

Carve. Now don't move. Remember you're a 
sick man, and forget you're a servant. \_Shawn 



10 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

sMvers. 'Ccirve, about to put on his dressing- 
gown, changes his mind, and wraps it round Shawn 
as well as he can. Carve then puts on an oldish 
coat.^ 

Shawn [feebly^. You've been very quick, sir. 

Carve, I found a red lamp only three doors 
off. He'll be along in half a minute. 

Shawn. Did you explain what it was, sir? 

Carve [genially^. How could I explain what 
it was, you fool, when I don't know? I simply 
asked to see the doctor, and I told him there was 
a fellow-creature suffering at No. 126, and would 
he come at once. "126?" he said. "126 has 
been shut up for years ! " 

^hawn ^trying to smilel. What did you say, 
sir? 

Carve. 1 said [articulating with clearness^ a 
hundred and twenty-six, — and ran off. Then he 
yelled out after me that he'd come instantly. . . . 
I say, Shawn, we're discovered! I could tell that 
from his sudden change of tone. Moreover, there 
was a parlour maid sort of person lying in wait at 
the kitchen window next door below, and another 
of 'em on the area steps next door higher up. I 
bet the entire street knows that the celebrated ME 
has arrived at last. I feel like a criminal al- 
ready, dashed if I don't! I wish we'd gone to a 
hotel, now [walks about^. I say, did you make up 
the bed? 

Shawn. I was just doing it, sir. 



ACT I 11 

Carve, But what about sheets and so on? 

Shawn. I bought some this morning, ready 
hemmed, sir. With those and the travelling 
rug 

Carve. Well, don't you think you could work 
your passage out to the bed? With my help? 

Shawn. Me in your bed, sir ! 

Carve [genially bullying]. Keep on in that 
tone — and I'll give you the sack on the spot. 
Now, then ! Try — before the doctor comes \hell 
rings]. 

Shawn. The bell, sir — excuse me ! 

Carve. Confound 

Exit Carve. Shawn coughs and 'puts a hand- 
kerchief to his mouth. Carve returns immediately 
with Dr. Pascoe. 

Pascoe [glancing round quickly]. This the 
patient? \_Goes to Shawn and looks at him. 
Then, taking a cMnical thermometer from his 
pocket, and wiping it; with marked respect.] Al- 
low me to put this under your tongue for half a 
minute. [Having done so, he takes Shawn's 
wrist, and, looking at his watch, counts the pa- 
tient's pulse. Then removes thermometer, and 
reads off it] 104? 1-2. [Turning to Carve, in a 
low, curt voice.] When did this begin? 

Carve. Just now! That is, he only began to 
complain about six o'clock. We arrived in Lon- 
don this morning, from Madrid. 



12 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 



Pascoe. Pulse is 140 — and weak. I must 
have some boiling water. 

Carve \_at a lossl. What for? 

Pascoe. What for.? For a poultice. 

Carve [carelessly^ . But there isn't any. . . . 
We've nothing except this spirit-lamp [pointing 
to lamp on table~\. 

Pascoe. No women in the house? 

Carve [with hwrnour that the doctor declines to 
see']. Not one. 

Pascoe [controlling his exasperation]. Never 
mind. I'll run round to the surgery and get my 
hypodermic [to Shawn reassuringly and defer- 
entially']. I shall be back at once, Mr. Carve [to 
Carve^ near door]. Keep your master well cov- 
ered up — I suppose you can do that? [Exit.] 

Carve. Shawn, my poor fellow, he takes you 
for the illustrious Ham Carve! This is what 
comes of me rushing out in shirtsleeves [gesture 
of despair]. I can't explain it to him. . . . 
Look here, it'll save a lot of bother and bore if we 
let him go on as he's begun. You be the renowned 
painter, and I'll do the valet as well as I can. As 
soon as you're well enough, we'll hook it. 

Shawn. But 

Carve. It's all right. You'll be infinitely 
better looked after, you know, and I shall be 
saved from their infernal curiosity. 

Shawn, It's only this, sir. I was half expect- 



ACT I 13 

ing a young lady to-night, sir [very jeehly'\. At 
least I believe she's young. 

Carve, Shawn, I've always suspected you were 
a bad lot. Now I know. I also know why you 
were so devilish anxious to put me to bed early. 
What am I to say to this young lady on your be- 
half? 

Shawn. [Worse, is too ill to answer. Pause. 
Re-enter Dr. Pascoe, very rapidly, with a large 
tumbler half full of hot liquid.^ 

Pascoe. You may say I've been quick \_as he 
bends down to Shawn, addressing Carve^. Get 
me a wineglass of clean cold water [to Shawnl^. 
Now, please. I want you to drink a little brandy 
and water. [Shawn makes no response.^ By 
Jove ! [Pascoe then pours some of the brandy and 
water down Shawn's throat.^ 

Carve [who has been wandering about vaguely']. 
I don't think we've got a wineglass. There's a 
cup, but I suppose that isn't medical enough. 

Pascoe [taking a syringe from his pocket and 
unscrewing it]. Pour some water in it. [Carve 
obeys.] Now, hold it. 

Carve [indicating syringe]. What is this de- 
vice ? 

Pascoe. This device? I'm going to get some 
strychnine into him, by injection. Steady with 
that cup, now! [Pascoe drops a tablet into the 
syringe and screws it up agai/n, draws a little 
water up into the syringe, and shakes the syringe. 



14 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Then goes to Shawn to make the injection, on the 
top side of the patienfs forearm. Carve still 
holds the cup out, mechanically.'] I've done with 
that cup. 

Carve [putting the cup down]. Might I ask 
what's the matter with him? 

Pascoe. Pneumonia is the matter. [Noise of 
someone in the hall.] 

Carve [startled]. Surely that's someone in the 
hall! 

Pascoe. KJeep perfectly calm, my man. It's 
my assistant. I left the door open on purpose 
for him. He's got the poultice and things. [In 
a loud voice as he finishes the injection:] Come 
along, come along there ! This way. [Enter Ed- 
ward Horning, with poultice, lint, bandages, 
etc.] 

Pascoe. Found the antiphlogistine.? 

E. Horning. Yes. [He looks at patient, and 
exchanges a glance with Pascoe.] 

Pascoe. Where's the bedroom? 

Carve. There's one there [pointing to double 
doors]. 

Pascoe [to Horning]. We'll get him into bed 
now. [To Carve.] Bed ready? 

Carve. Yes. I — I think he was just making 
it up. 

Pascoe [startled]. Does he make up his own 
bed? 



ACT I 15 

t 

Carve [Perceiving the mist alee hut resuming his 
calm^. Always. 

Pascoe [controlling his astonishment; looki/ng 
through double doors and opening them wider. 
To Horning]. Yes, this'll do. Put those things 
down here a minute while we lift him. [Pascoe 
and Horning then carry the inanimate form of 
Shawn into the room behind^ while Carve hovers 
about uselessly.] 

Carve. Can I do anything? 

Pascoe [indicating a chair furthest away from 
the double doors]. You see that chair? 

Carve. I see it. 

Pascoe. Go and sit on it. [Exeunt Pascoe 
and Horning^ bach, closing double-doors.. .After 
walking about. Carve sits down, on another chair. 
A bell rings twice. He pays no attention. Then 
enter Janet Cannot, i>. Carve jumps up, hut is 
inarticulate, though very favourably interested.] 

Janet [smiling sympathetically]. I rang 
twice. 

Carve. The bell must be out of order. 

Janet. I couldn't be sure but I don't think it's 
the bell that's out of order. 

Carve. Oh! You think I'm out of order? 

Janet. No. I was thinking that you'd only 
just come into the house — all you famous folk — 
and you hadn't quite got it straight yet — as it 
w^ere [looking vaguely at room]. 

Carve. All we famous folk? 



16 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 



Janet. Well — I don't know myself about 
that sort of thing! 

Carve. What sort of thing? 

Janet. Picture-painting, isn't it? I mean real 
pictures ~^- done by hand, coloured 

Carve. Ah — yes. 

Janet [after a slight pause'\. It struck me all 
of a sudden while I was waiting at the door that 
it might have been left open on purpose. 

Carve. The front door? On purpose? What 
for? 

Janet. Oh — for some one particular to walk 
in without any fuss. So in I stepped. 

Carve. You're the young lady that Mr. 
Shawn's expecting [going towards passage^ . 

Janet [stopping him']. It's shut now. You 
don't want everybody walking in, do you? 

Carve [looking at Janet with pleasure]. So 
you're the young lady — Mrs. . . . Miss . . .? 

Janet [ignoring Ms question]. Was it a mes- 
sage you had for me? 

Carve. No, no. Not a message. . , . 

But The fact is, we're rather upset here 

for the moment. 

Janet. Yes. Illness. 

Carve. Now if it isn't an indiscreet question, 
how did you know that there was illness? 

Janet. I was standing looking at this house 
and wondering whether I shouldn't do better to 
go right back home, there and then. But " No," 



ACT I 17 

I said, " I've begun and I'll go through with it." — 
Well, I was standing there when what should I see 
but a parlour maid pop up from the area-steps 
next door, and she sa3'S to me over the railings, 
" The doctor's just been." Just like that, ex- 
cited. So I said, " Thank you, miss." I hope 
it's nothing serious. 

Carve. Pneumonia. 

Janet. Pneumonia ! What a mercy ! 

Carve. Mercy ? 

Janet. If you look at it sensibly it's about the 
best illness anybody could have in hot weather 
like this. You've got to keep them warm. The 
weather does it for you. If it was typhoid, now, 
and you'd got to keep them cool — that would be 
awkward. Not but it passes me how anybody can 
catch pneumonia in August. 

Carve. Coming over from the continent. 

Janet. Oh! The continent! It's not Mr. 
Shawn that's ill? 

Carve [hesitating^. Mr. Shawn! Oh, no, no! 
It's Ham Carve. 

Janet [half whispering, awed^. Oh! Him! 
Poor thing! And nobody but men in the house! 

Carve. And who told you that.? 

Janet. Well — [waves her hand to indicate 
the state of the room, smilingly indulgently^ I al- 
ways feel sorry for gentlemen when they have to 
manage for themselves, even if they're well and 
hearty. But when it comes to illness — I can't 



18 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

bear to think about it. Still, everybody has their 
own notions of comfort. And I've no doubt he'll 
very soon be better. 

Carve. You think he will.f* 

Janet \hlandly cheerful]. As a general rule, 
you may say that people do get better. That's 
my experie'nce. Of course, sometimes they take a 
longish time. And now and then one dies — else 
what use would cemeteries be? But as a general 
rule, they're soon over it. Now am I going to see 
Mr. Shawn, or shall I 

Carve. Well, if you could call again . . . 

Janet. You say you hadn't a message? 

Carve. Not precisely a message. But if you 
could call again . . . 

Janet. When ? 

Carve [^rather eagerly]. Any time! Any 
time ! . . . Soon ! 

Janet. Night after to-morrow? 

Carve. Why not morning? 

Janet. Perhaps morning is safer. Thank 
you. Very well then. Day after to-morrow. 
I suppose Mr. Shawn has a rare fine sit- 
uation here? 

Carve {^shruggmg his shoulders]. Nothing to 
complain of, if you ask me ! 

Janet offers her hand, qmte simply. The 
double doors open. Carve looks alarmed, 

Janet. Thank you very much. I think I can 
open the front door myself. 



ACT I 19 

Carve. I say — You won't forget ? 

Janet. Well, wheat do you think? \_Eccit, l. 
Enter Dr. Pascoe through double doors.^ 

Pascoe \^at double doors, to Horning invisible 
behind^. Then there's no reason why the nurse 
at Edith Grove shouldn't come along here? She's 
practically fresh. 

Horning [o^]. Yes. She'll be free in an 
hour. 

Pascoe. All right. I'll look in there before I 
go to bed, and send her. Nothing else you want 
here ? 

Horning [o^]. No, [^Pascoe shuts folding 
doors. ^ 

Carve. What's this about a nurse? 

Pascoe. I'm sending one in \_ironically'\. Do 
you see any objection? 

Carve. On the contrary. I should like him to 
be treated with every care. He's invaluable to 
me. 

Pascoe \^staggered~\. Of course, in my line of 
business I get used to meeting odd people 

Carve [recovering from his mistake^. But you 
think I carry oddness rather far? 

Pascoe. The idea did pass through my mind. 

Carve. Nervousness, nothing but nervousness ! 
I'm very nervous. And then — you know the say- 
ing — Like master, like man. 

Pascoe [indicating bach-room with a gesture; in 
a slightly more confidential tone, as Carvers per- 



20 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

> 

sonal attractiveness gains on hirri]. Mr. Carve 

odd? 

Carve. Oh, very ! Always was. Ever since 
I've known him. You remember his first picture 
at the Academy? 

Pascoe. No, not exactly. 

Carve. Either you remember it exactly, or you 
don't remember it at all. Life-size picture of a 
policeman blowing his whistle. 

Pascoe. Yes, it must have been odd, that must. 

Carve. Not a bit. The oddness of the fel- 
low 

Pascoe. What " fellow " — your governor ? 

Carve [nods'}. His oddness came out in this 
way — Although the thing had really a great suc- 
cess, from that day to this he's never painted an- 
other life-size picture of a policeman blowing his 
whistle. 

Pascoe. I don't see anything very odd 
there 

Carve. Don't you? Well, perhaps you don't 
go in for art much. If you did, you'd know that 
the usual and correct thing for a painter who has 
made a great success with a life-size picture of a 
policeman blowing his whistle is to keep on doing 
life-size pictures of a policeman blowing his whis- 
tle for ever and ever, so that the public can al- 
ways count on getting from him a life-size picture 
of a policeman blowing his whistle. 



ACT I 81 

\ 

Pascoe. I observe you're one of those comic 

valets. Nervousness again, no doubt ! 

Carve [^smiling and continuing^. Seeing the 
way he invariably flouted the public, it's always 
been a mystery to me how he managed to make a 
name, to say nothing of money. 

Pascoe. Money — he must make pots ! You 
say I don't go in for art much, but I always read 
the big sales at Christie's. Why, wasn't it that 
policeman picture that Lord Leonard Alcar bought 
for 2,000 guineas last year? 

Carve. No, not Alcar; I think the bobby was 
last bought by Texel. 

Pascoe. Texel? Who's Texel? 

Carve. Collector — United States. One of 
their kings, I'm told. 

Pascoe. Oh, him! Controls all the ink in the 
United States. 

Carve. Really ! That's what I should call in- 
fluence. No. It was the " Pelicans Feeding Their 
Young " that Alcar bought. Four thousand. 
You're getting mixed up. 

Pascoe. Perhaps I am. I know I'm constantly 
seeing Mr. Carve's name in connection with Lord 
Leonard Alcar's. It's a nice question which is 
the best known of the two. 

Carve. Then the — governor really is famous 
in England? You see we never come to England. 

Pascoe. Famous — I should think he was. 



22 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

\ 

Aren't they always saying he's the finest colourist 

since Titian ? And look at his prices ! 

Carve. Yes. I've looked at his prices. Ti- 
tian's prices are higher, but Titian isn't what you'd 
call famous with the general public, is he? What 
I want to know is — is the governor famous 
among the general public? 

Pascoe. Yes. 

Carve. About how famous should you say he 
is? 

Pascoe \}iesitating~\. Well — [ahru]ptlyl^ — 
That's a silly question. 

Carve. No it isn't. Is he as famous as — er 
— Harry Lauder ? 

Pascoe [shakes his head^. You mustn't go to 
extremes. 

Carve. Is he as famous as Harry Vardon? 

Pascoe. Never heard of him. 

Carve. I only see these names- in the papers. 
Is he as famous as Billington? 

Pascoe. Yes, I should say he was. 

Carve. Oh, well, that's not so bad. Better 
than I thought. It's so difficult to judge, where 
one is — er — personally concerned. Especially 
if you're never on the spot. 

Pascoe. So it's true Mr. Carve never comes 
to England. 

Carve. Never, nowadays. 

Pascoe. Not even to see his relatives? 

Carve. Has none. That is to say, there's one 



ACT I ^ 

1 

relative — Cyrus Carve ; cousin. He's a biggish 

auctioneer. 

Pascoe. Cyrus Carve's his cousin, eh? Well, 
I never knew that. 

Carve. They quarrelled when they were boys. 
And then they quarrelled again later on — by 
correspondence — about this house. It was left 
all furnished to the governor by a mutual aunt, 
whereas Cousin Cyrus was expecting to get the 
pick of the furniture. 

Pascoe. So that's how Mr. Carve came into 
possession of the place ! And he's kept it all these 
years without using it? 

Carve. He's had it aired and cleaned pretty 
regularly \\ooking round] — at least, he's paid 
for having it aired and cleaned. His notion al- 
ways was that it might be useful some day. And, 
sure enough, now it is useful. 

Pascoe. But why does he never come to Eng- 
land [quietly] ? I'm not asking you — I'm merely 
stating the general attitude .of this street fdr 
years past. 

Carve. Why should he come to England? He 
isn't a portrait painter. 

Pascoe. Of course, if you look at it like that, 
there's no particular attractiveness in England, 
that I've ever seen. But that answer wouldn't 
satisfy Redcliffe Gardens. Redcliffe Gardens is 
persuaded that there must be a special reason. 

Carve. Well, there is. 



24 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

t 

Pascoe {interested in spite of himself^. In- 
deed! 

Carve [confidentially~\. Have a cigarette [o/- 
fering case^ ? 

Pascoe {staggered anew, hut accepting']. That's 
a swagger case. 

Carve. Ohl . . . {calml^l. He gave it me. 
me. 

Pascoe. Really ? 

Carve. Well, you see, we're more like brothers 
— been together so long. He gives me his best 
suits, too. Look at this waistcoat. {Motions 
the hypnotised Pascoe to take a chair. They 
light their cigarettes.] 

Pascoe. So there is a special reason why you 
keep out of England ? 

Carve. Yes. Shyness. 

Pascoe. How — Shyness ? 

Carve. Just simple shyness. Shyness is a dis- 
ease with the governor, a perfect disease. 

Pascoe. But everyone's shy. The more ex- 
perience I get the more convinced I am that we're 
all shy. Why, you were shy when you came to 
fetch me 

Carve. Did you notice it? 

Pascoe. Of course. And I was shy when I 
came in here. I was thinking to myself, " Now 
I'm going to see the great Ham Carve, actually in 
the flesh," and I was shy. You'd think my profes- 
sion would have cured me of being shy, but not a 



ACT I 25 

bit. Ne,rvous disease, of course. Ought to be 
treated as such ! Almost universal ! . . . Be- 
sides, even if he is shy — your governor — even 
if he's a hundredfold shy, that's no reason for keep- 
ing out of England. Shyness is not one of those 
diseases you can cure by change of climate. 

Carve. Pardon me. My esteemed employer's 
shyness is a special shyness. He's only shy when 
he has to play the celebrity. So long as people 
take him for no one particular, he's quite all right. 
For instance, he's never shy with me. But in- 
stantly people approach him as the celebrity, in- 
stantly he sees in the eye of the beholder any 
consciousness of being in the presence of a toff — 
then he gets desperately shy, and his one desire is 
to be alone at sea, or to be buried somewhere deep 
In the bosom of the earth. [Pascoe laughs. 
What are you laughing at? [Carve also laughs. '\ 

Pascoe. Go on, go on. I'm enjoying it. 

Carve. No, but seriously ! It's true what I 
tell you. It amounts almost to a tragedy in the 
brilliant career of my esteemed. You see now that 
England would be impossible for him as a resi- 
dence. You see, don't you.? 

Pascoe. Quite. 

Carve. Why, even on the continent. In the big 
towns and the big hotels we often travel incognito, 
for safety. It's only In the country districts that 
he goes about under his own name. 

Pascoe. So that he's really got no friends .^^ 



26 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

1 

Carve. None, except a few Italian and Spanish 

peasants — and me. 

Pascoe. Well, well ! It's an absolute mania, 
then, this shyness. 

Carve [slightly hurt]. Oh! Not so bad as 
that. And then it's only fair to say he has his 
moments of great daring — you may say rash- 
ness. 

Pascoe. All timid people are like that. 

Carve. Are they [musing] ? We're here now 
owins: to one of his moments of rashness. 

Pascoe. Indeed ! 

Carve. Yes. We met an English lady in a 
village in Andalusia, and — well, of course, I 
can't tell you everything ! — but she flirted with 
3iim and he flirted with her. 

Pascoe. Under his own name? 

Carve. Yes. And then he proposed to her. I 
knew all along it was a blunder. 

Pascoe [ironic']. Did you? 

Carve. Yes. She belonged to the aristocracy, 
and she was one of those amateurs painters that 
wander about the continent by themselves — you 
know. 

Pascoe. And did she accept? 

Carve. Oh, yes. They got as far as Madrid 
together, and then all of a sudden my esteemed 
saw that he'd made a mistake. 

Pascoe. And then what? 

Pascoe. And what then? 



ACT I 9n 

Carve. We fled the country. We hooked it. 
The idea of coming to London struck him — just 
the caprice of a man who's lost his head — and 
here we are ! 

Pascoe \_after a pause^. He doesn't seem to 
me, from the look of him, to be a man who'd — 
shall we say? — strictly avoided women. 

Carve [startled, with a gesture towards backl. 
Him? [Pasco nods.~\ Really! Confound him! 
Now I've always suspected that ; though he man- 
ages to keep his goings-on devilish quiet ! 

Pascoe [rising^. It occurs to me, my friend, 
that I'm listening to too much. But you're so 
persuasive. 

Cane. It's such a pleasure to talk freely — 
for once in a w^ay. 

Pascoe. " Freely " is the word. 

Carve. Oh! He won't mind. 

Pascoe \_in a peculiar tone^. It's quite possi- 
ble. 

[Enter Horning.'] 

Horning. Oh! You aren't gone. I thought 
I heard talking. i[To Carve] I) say ! Carve 
hasn't been digging or gardening or anything, I 
suppose, and then taken cold after? 

Carve. Digging ? Oh, no ! He must have got 
a bad chill on the steamer. Why ? 

Horning. Nothing. Only his hands and 
fingernails are so rough 

Carve [after thinking]. Oh, I see! All ar- 



28 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

tists arc like that. Messing about with paints 
and acids and things. Look at my hands. 

Pascoe. But are you an artist, too? 

Carve [recovering himself, calmly']. No, no! 

Pascoe [to Horning]. How's he going on? 

Horning [shrugs his shoulders], I'm sure the 
base of both lungs is practically solid. 

Pascoe. Well, we can't do more than we have 
done, my boy. 

Horning. He'll never pull through! 

Pascoe [calmly]. I should certainly be sur- 
prised if he did. What did I tell you? 

Carve [astounded] . But — but 

Pascoe. But what? 

Carve. You don't mean to say — why, he's a 
strong, healthy man! 

Pascoe. Precisely. Not very unusual for your 
strong, healthy man to die of pneumonia in twenty- 
four hours. You ought to know, at your age, 
that it's a highly dangerous thing to be strong 
and healthy [turning away], I'll have another 
look at him. 

Carve [extremely perturbed]. But this is ridic- 
ulous ! I simply don't know what I shall do with- 
out that man ! 

[Curtain falls for a few moments to indicate 
passage of time.] 
Scene //. 
Time. — The next morning hut one. Slightly less 



ACT I 29 

disorder in the room. Carve and Pascoe are to- 
gether, the latter ready to leave. 

Carve. Will there have to be an inquest? 

Pascoe. Inquest? Of course not! 

Carve. It's some relief to know that. I 
couldn't have faced a coroner. 

Pascoe [staring at him~\. Perfectly ordinary 
case. 

Carve. That's what you call perfectly ordi- 
nar}^ is it ? A man is quite well on Tuesday after- 
noon, and dead at four a. m. on Thursday morn- 
ing [looking at his watch'] ! My watch has 
stopped. 

Pascoe. One of those cheap German watches, 
I suppose, that stop if you forget to wind them 
up. It's a singular thing that when people stay 
up all night they take it for granted their watches 
are just as excited as they are. Look here, you'll 
be collapsing soon. When did you have anything 
to eat last? 

Carve. Almost half an hour ago. Two sau- 
sages, that were sent in yesterday for the nurse. 

Pascoe. She's gone? V^^'\ 

Carve, Oh, yes ! 

Pascoe. Well, take my advice. Try to get 
some sleep. Now. You've had no reply from the 
fc'elatives — the cousin — what's-his-name — Cy- 
rus? 

Carve. No. I| — I didn't telegraph — I for- 
got 



30 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Pascoe. Well, upon my soul ! I specially re- 
minded 3^ou yesterday afternoon. 

Carve. I didn't know the address 

Pascoe. Ever heard of the London Directory? 
You'd better run out and wire instantly. You 
don't seem to realise that the death of a man like 
Ham Carve will make something of a stir in the 
world. And you may depend on it that whether 
they'd quarrelled or not, Cyrus Carve will want to 
know why he wasn't informed of the illness at 
once. You've let yourself in for a fine row, and 
well you deserve it ! 

Carve [after a few paces^. See here, doctor. 

I'm afraid there's been some mistake [^facing 

him nervously^. 

Pascoe. What ? 

Carve. I — I Ibell rings.'] 

Pascoe \_firmly~\. Listen to me, my man. 
There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has 
been done that could be done. Don't you get 
ideas into your head. Lie down' and rest. You're 
done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. 
ril communicate with Cyrus. I can telephone, and 
while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar, too — 
he'll probably send a clerk round. 

Carve. Registrar ? 

Pascoe. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all 
kinds of things to attend to. [Moving to go out. 
Bell rings again.] 



ACT I 31 

Cane [as if dazed^. Is that the front-door 
bell? 

Pascoe [drily']. Quite possibly. I'll open it. 
[Exit.] 

[Carve, alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re- 
enter Pascoe with Cyrus Carve.] 

Pascoe [as they enter]. Yes, very sudden, very 
sudden ! There were three of us — a nurse, my 
assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the 
deceased's valet. 

Cyrus. Morning. ]My name is Cyrus Carve. 
I'm your late master's cousin, and his nearest rela- 
tive. You've possibly never heard of me. 

Carve [curtly]. Oh, yes, I have. You got up 
a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you 
and he. 

Cyrus. Your manner isn't very respectful, 
my friend. However you may have treated my 
cousin, be good enough to remember 3^ou're not my 
valet. 

Carve. How did ou get to know about it? 

Cyrus. I suppose he forbade you to send for 
me, eh? [Pause.] Eh? 

Carve [jumping at this suggestion]. Yes. 

Pascoe. So that was it ! 

Cyrus [ignoring Pascoe] . Ha ! Well, since 
you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour 
ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag. I 
was on my way to the office. [Showing paper.] 
Here you are ! The " Evening Courier." Quite 



62 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

a full account of the illness. You couldn't send 
for me, but you could chatter to some journalist! 

Carve, I've never spoken to a journalist in my 
life. 

Cyrus. Then how . . .? 

Pascoe. It's probably my assistant. His 
brother is something rather important on the 
" Courier," and he may have telephoned to him. 
It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve. 

Cyrus \_drily^. I imagine so. Where is the 
body ? 

Pascoe. Upstairs [moving towards doorl^. 

Cyrus. Thanks. I will go alone. 

Pascoe. Large room at back — first floor. 
\_Ea:it Cyrus, l.] I think I'd prefer to leave you 
to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do 
all that's necessary. You might give him my card, 
and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing 
the death certificate, and so on [^handing card^. 

Carve [taking card 'perfunctorily']. Very well. 
Then j^ou're going? 

Pascoe. Yes. [Moves away, and then sud- 
denly puts out his hand, which Carve shakes.] 
Want a word of advice? 

Carve. I — I ought 

Pascoe. If I were you, I should try to get 
something better than valeting. It's not your 
line. You may have suited Ham Carve, but you'd 
never suit an ordinary employer. ... You aren't 



ACT I S3 

a fool — not by any means. [Carve shrugs his 
shoulders.^ 

\_Eccit Pascoe, l. Door bangs off. Re-enter 
Cyrus, immediately after the door hangs.'] 

Carve [to himself]. Now for it! [To Cyrus.] 
Well? 

Cyrus. Well what? 

Carve. Recognise your cousin? 

Cyrus. Of course, a man of forty-five isn't 
like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should 
have recognised him anywhere. 

Carve [taken hack]. Should you indeed! [A 
pause.] And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that 
kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of 
thirty-three years ago. 

Cyrus. Look here, I fancy you and I had 
better come to an understanding at once. What 
salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable 
services ? 

Carve. What salary? 

Cyrus. What salary? 

Carve. Eighty pounds a year. 

Cyrus. When were you last paid? 

Carve. I — I 

Cyrus. When were you last paid? 

Carve. The day before yesterday. 

Cyrus [taking a note from his pocket-hook and 
pocket]. Here's seven pounds — a month's wages 
in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's 



a4 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now 
\liolding out money. ~\ 

Carve. But listen 

Cyrus [commandingly] . Take it. [Carve 
obeys.^ Pack up and be out of this house within 
an hour. 

Carve. I 

C3a'us. I jshall not argue. . . . Did your 
master keep his private papers and so on in Eng- 
land or somewhere on the continent.'^ . . . What 
bank ? 

Carve. What bank? He didn't keep them in 
any bank. 

Cyrus. Where did he keep them, then? 

Carve. He kept them himself. 

Cyrus. What — travelling ? 

Carve. Yes. Why not? 

Cyrus [with a '* tut-tut " noise to indicate the 
business man's mild scorn of the artist's methods^. 
Whose is this luggage? 

Carve. Mine. 

Cyrus. All of it? 

Carve. That is 

Cyrus. Come, noAV, is it his, or is it yours? 
Now be careful. 

Carve. His. [Angrily as Cyrus roughly han- 
dles a box.'] Now, then, mind what you're about! 
Those are etching things. 

Cyrus. I shall mind what I'm about. And 
what's this? 



ACT I 35 

Carve. That's a typewriter. 

Cyrus. I always thought artists couldn't 
stand typewriting machines. 

Carve. That was — his servant's. 

Cyrus. Yours, you mean? 

Carve. Yes, I mean mine. 

Cyrus. Then why don't you say so? What do 
you want a tpewriter for? 

Carve [savagely^ . What the devil has that got 
to do with you ? 

Cyrus [looking up calmly from the examination 
of a despatch hox~\. If you can't keep a civil 
tongue in your head, I'll pitch you down the front- 
door steps and your things after you. 

Carve. I've got something to tell j^ou 

Cyrus. Silence ! And answer my questions. 
Are his papers in this despatch-box? 

Carve. Yes. 

Cyrus. Where are his keys? 

Carve [slowly drazcing bunch of keys from his 
pocket~\. Here. 

Cyrus [taking them]. So you keep his keys. 

Carve. Yes. 

Cyrus [opening despatch hoxl^. Wear his 
clothes, too, I should say. 

[Carve sits down negligently and smiles.^ 

Cyrus [as he is examining papers in box]. 
What are you laughing at? 

Carve. I'm not laughing — I'm smiling. 
[Rising and looking cuiiously at box.] There's 



36 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

nothing there except lists of securities and pic- 
tures and a few oddments — passports, and so on. 

Cyrus. There appears to be some money. I'm 
glad you've left that. Quite a lot, in fact [^show- 
ing notes~\. 

Carve. Here, steady ! There's twelve thou- 
sand francs there, besides some English notes. 
That's mine. 

Cyrus. Yours, eh? He kept it for you, no 
doubt? 

Carve \_hesitating~\. Yes. 

Cyrus. When you can furnish me with his re- 
ceipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed 
to you. Till then it forms a part of the estate. 
[Looking at a packet of letters.^ " Alice Row- 
fant." 

Carve. And those letters are mine, too. 

Cyrus [reading^. "My dearest boy." Were 
you Lady Alice Rowf ant's dearest boy? 
Anyhow, we'll burn them. 

Carve. So long as you burn them I don't mind. 

Cyrus. Indeed! [^Continues to examine pa- 
pers, cheque-foils, etc.. .Then opens a document.^ 

Carve. Oh! Is that still there? I thought 
it was destroyed. 

Cyrus. Do you know what it is? 

Carve. Yes. It's a will that was made in 
Venice I don't know how long ago — just after 
the little difficulty with you about the furniture 
of this house. Everything is left for the estab- 



ACT I 37 

lishment of an International Gallery of Paintings 
and Sculpture in London, and you're the sole ex- 
ecutor, and j'^ou get a legacy of five pounds for 
your trouble. 

Cyrus. Yes ... so I see. No doubt my 
cousin imagined it would annoy me. 

Carve. He did. 

Cyrus. He told you so? 

Carve. He said it would be one in the eye for 
you — and he wondered whether you'd decline the 
executorship. 

Cyrus. Well my man, I may tell you at once 
that I shall not renounce probate. I never ex- 
pected a penny from my cousin. I always as- 
sumed he'd do something silly with his money, and 
I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact the idea 
of a great public institution in London being as- 
sociated with my family is rather pleasant. 

Carve. But he meant to destroy that will long 
since. 

Cyrus [as lie cons the te'i/Z]. How do you know.? 
Has he made a later will? 

Carve. No. 

Cyrus. Well then! . . . Besides, I fail to see 
why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. 
You come into eighty pounds a year under it. 

Carve. I was forgetting that. 

Cyrus [reading~\. "I bequeath to my servant, 
Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough 
rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet courier and 



38 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for 
life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is 
in my service at the time of my death." [Carve 
laughs sliortly.^ You don't want to lose that do 
you? Of course if the term " thorough rascal " is 
offensive to you, you can always decline the 
money. [Folds up will and puts it in his pocket. 
Carve walks ahout^. Now where's the doctor? 

Carve. He's left his card. There it is. 

Cyrus. He might have waited. 

Carve. Yes. But he didn't. His house is 
only three doors off. 

Cyrus [looking at his watch]. I'll go in and 
see him about the certificate. Now you haven't 
begun to put your things together and you've 
only got a bit over half an hour. In less than 
that time I shall be back. I shall want to look 
through your luggage before you leave. 

Carve [lightlyl. Shall you? 

Cyrus. By the way you have a latchkey? 
[Carve nods.~\ Give it to me please [Carve sur- 
renders latchkey~\. 

Cyrus turns to go. 

As he is disappearing through the door i.. 
Carve starts forward. 

Carve. I say ! 

Cyrus. What now? 

Carve [subsiding, weakly~\. Nothing. 

Exit Cyrus. 

Sound of front door opening and of voices in 



ACT I S9 

hall. Then re-enters Cyrus with Janet Cannot, 

Cyrus, This is Mr. Albert Shawn. Shawn, a 
friend of yours. \^Exit l.] 

Carve [pleased^ . Oh ! You ! 

Janet. Good morning. D'you know, I had a 
suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. 
Shawn. 

Carve. Had you? Well, will you sit down.? 
Er — I say [mth a humorous mysterious air^. 
What do you think of that chap? [Pointing in di- 
rection of hall.^ 

Janet. Who is it? 

Carve. It's Mr. Cyrus Carve. 

Janet. Brother ? 

Carve. Oh, no, thank goodness ! Only a 
cousin. [Front-door bangs tremendously.^ 

Janet. " Good morning " I said to him. " Ex- 
cuse me, but are you Mr. Albert Shawn ? " Be- 
cause I wasn't sure you know. And he looked 

Carve [after laughing^. The man is an ass? 
. .Janet. Is he? 

Carve. Not content with being an ass merely, 
he is a pompous and a stupid ass. [Laughs again, 
to himself.^ Now there is something very impor- 
tant that he ought to know, and he wouldn't let 
me tell him. 

Janet. Really ! 

Carve. Yes, very important. But no ! He 
wouldn't let me tell him. And perhaps if I'd told 
him he wouldn't have believed me. 



40 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

I 

Janet. What did he do to stop you from tell- 
ing him? 

Carve \^at a loss vaguely^. I don't know. . . . 
Wouldn't let me. . . . 

Janet. If you ask me, I should say the truthl 
is you didn't want to tell him. 

Carve [impress ed^. Now I wonder if you're 
right ! 

Janet. Well, I don't quite see how anybody 
can stop anybody from talking. But even if he 
did, he can't stop you from writing to him. 

Carve. No, I'm hanged if I write to him! 

Janet. Oh well, that's proof you didn't want 
to tell him. 

Carve. Perhaps it is. [After a burst of quiet 
laugher.^ Pardon me! [Reflective.~\ I was only 
thinking what a terrific lark it will be. 

Janet. If he never does get to know? 

Carve. If he never does get to know . . . 
[resolvedl. No! I'll keep my mouth shut. 

Janet. As a general rule it's the best thing 
to do. 

Carve. You advise me to keep my mouth shut? 

Janet. Not at all. I simply say as a general 
rule it's the best thing to do. But this is no busi- 
ness of mine, and I'm sure I'm not inquisitive. 

Carve [solemnly^. He shall go his own way. 
[pause.'] And — I'll — go — mine. 

Janet [calmly indifferent]. That's settled 
then. 



ACT I 41 

Carve [laughs again to himself, then controls 
his features^. And that being settled, the first 
thing I have to do is to apologise for my be- 
haviour Tuesday night. 

Janet. Oh, not at all! Seeing how upset you 
were. . . . And then I'm not sure whether I 
shouldn't have done the same myself in your place. 

Carve. Done the same yourself.'' 
. .Janet. Well, I may be w ,ornbgtu hrflwdu 

Janet. Well, I may be wrong, but it occurred 
to me your idea was that you'd like to have a look 
at me before giving yourself away, as it were. Of 
course I sent you my photograph. But photo- 
graphs aren't much better than gravestones — for 
being reliable; and some folks are prejudiced 
against matrimonial agencies, even w^hen they 
make use of them. It's natural. Now I've got 
no such prejudice. If you want to get married 
you want to get married, and there you are ! It's 
no use pretending you don't. And there's as much 
chance of being happy through a matrimonial 
agency as any other way. At least — that's 
what I think. 

Carve [collecting his mts']. Just so. 

Janet. You may tell me that people who go to 
la matrimonial agency stand a chance of getting 
let in. Well, people who don't go to a matrimo- 
nial agency stand a chance of getting let in, too. 
Besides, I shouldn't give a baby a razor for a birth- 
day present, and I shouldn't advise a young girl 



42 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

to go to a matrimonial agency. But I'm not a 
young girl. If it's a question of the male sex, 
I may say that I've been there before. You un- 
derstand me? 

Carve. Quite. 

Janet. Well, I think I told you pretty nearly 
everthing imoprtant in my letter, didn't I.^^ 

Carve. Let me see now 

Janet. 1 mean the one I sent to the office of 
the " Matrimonial News." 

Carve [mechanically/ feeling in his pockets pull- 
ing out papers and putting them back^. Where 
did I put it? Oh, perhaps it's in the pocket of 
another coat. [Goes to a coat of Shawn s hang- 
ing on inner knob of double doorSy and empties all 
the pockets, bringing the contents, including a 
newspaper, to the table.^ 

Janet [picking up an envelope~\. Yes, that's 
keep things in the pockets of all your coats, 
it. I can feel the photograph. You seem to 

Carve. If you knew what I've been through 
this last day or two 

Janet \_soothinghj~\. Yes. Yes. 

Carve. I haven't had a quiet moment. Now 
— [reading letter^ . " Dear Sir, in reply to your 
advertisement, I write to you with particulars of 
my case. I am a widow aged thirty-two years 

Janet. And anybody that likes can see my 
birth certificate. That's what I call talking. 



ACT I 43 

Carve. My dear lady! [Continuing to read.'] 
" Thirty-two years. My father was a small job- 
bing builder well known in Putney and Wands- 
worth, ^ly husband was a rent collector and es- 
tate agent. He died four years ago of appendi- 
citis [liesHating] caught " 

Janet. Caused. 

Carve. I beg pardon, " caused by accidentally 
swallowing a bristle out of his tooth-brush, the 
same being discovered at the operation. I am an 
orphan, a widow, and have no children. In con- 
sequence I feel very lonely, and my first expe- 
rience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I 
am anxious to try again, provided I can meet 
with a sincere helpmate of good family. I am the 
owner of the above house, rated at forty-five 
pounds a year — in one of the nicest streets of 
Putney, and I have private means of some three 
pounds a week, from Brewery shares bringing in 
fifteen per cent. I will say nothing about my ap- 
pearance but enclose latest carte-de-visite photo- 
graph." 

Janet. I had it taken on purpose. 

Carve. " As to my tastes, I will only say that 
as a general rule they are quiet. If the above 
seems in your line I shall be obliged if you will 
write and send me particulars of yourself, with 
photograph. Yours truly, Janet Cannot." Well, 
Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model. 



44j the great adventure 

Janet. I suppose you got dozens. 

Carve. Well By the way, what's this 

typewritten thing in the envelope? 

Janet {looking at i^]. It looks like a copy of 
your answer. 

Carve, Oh ! 

Janet. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, 
why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so 
— what shall I say ? — public ! 

Carve [half to himself}. So that's the expla- 
nation of the typewriter! 

Janet [puzzled}. I suppose it's because you're 
a private secretary. 

Carve [equality puzzled}. Private secretary! 

I Shall we just glance through my reply? 

[Reads.} " My dear Mrs. Cannot. Your letter in- 
spires me with more confidence than any of the 
dozens of others I have received ^^[thei/ look at 
each other smiling} " As regards myself. I 
should state at once that I am and have been for 
many years private secretary, indeed I may say 
almost companion, to the celebrated painter, Mr. 
Ham Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are 
doubtless familiar with." 

Janet. No, I'm not. 

Carve. Really ! " We have been knocking 
about Europe together for longer than I care to 
rememberl, and I personally am anxious for a 
change. Our present existence is very expensive. 
I feel the need of a home and the companionship 



ACT I 45 

I 

of just such a woman as yourself. Although a 
bachelor I think I am not unfitted for the domes- 
tic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake 
— of the typewriter. 

Janet, Oh ! 

Carve. Forty-five it ought to be. 
. .Janet. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought 
it. 

Carve. " My age is forty-five. By a strange 
coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that 
we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I 
will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great 
haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe 
me " Etc. 

Janet. You didn't send a photograph. 

Carve. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing 
you in advance. 

Janet [laughs^. Eh, Mr. Shawn. There's 
thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in 
London this minute that would give a great deal 
to be only half as good-looking as you are! And 
so you're a bachelor? 

Carve. Oh, quite ! 

Janet. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking 
about Europe together ! [^Carve laughs quietly 
hut heartily to himself.^ By the way, how is Mr. 
Carve? I hope he's better. 

Carve. Mr. Carve? . . . [suddenly stops laugh- 
ing.~\ Oh! [Lamely, casually.'] He's dead. 

Janet [shocked.] Dead? When? 



46 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve. Early this morning. 

Janet [rising~\. And us chattering away like 
this Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn? 

Carve. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't 
thinking 

Janet. Forgot ? 

Carve \^simply and sincerely, hut very upset^. 
Now Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's 
death. I admit I had very little affection for him 
— certainly not much respect — but we'd been to- 
gether a long long time, and his death is a shock 
to me. Yes, really! But I've had to think so 
much about my own case. . . . And then a scene, 
a regular scene with Cyrus Carve ! And then you 



Janet \^sympathetically~\. The fact is, you 
scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. 
Shawn. The strain of this illness and so on has 
been too much for you. Your nerves are all to 
pieces — you're on wires that's what's the matter 
with you. I noticed it the other night — h^^steric ! 
1 know what it is as well as anybody. You'll ex- 
cuse me saying so — but you're no ordinary man. 
You're one of these highly strung people, and you 
ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, 
and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps 
meet again in a month's time — say. 

Carve. A month! But what am I to do with 
myself for a month.? Do you know you're abso- 



ACT I 4T 

lutely the only friend I've got in London — in 
the least idea what's going to happen to me. 

Janet. The very best thing that can happen 
to you is bed. You go to bed, and stop there for 
England ! We're never here. I'm an utter 
stranger. You can't leave me like that — for a 
month — four weeks — four Sundays. I haven't 
a couple of days. There's nothing like it. 

Carve. Yes, but where? 

Janet. Why, here, of course ! 

Carve. I've got to be out of this place in half 
an hour — less. The fact is, Cyrus Carve has 
been extremely — er — pert. He's paid me a 
month's salary, and I'm off at once. In under 
thirty minutes I shall be on the streets. 

Janet. I never liked that man. . . . Well then 
you must go to some nice respectable boarding- 
house. 

Carve. But I don't know any nice respectable 
boarding-house. 

Janet. Oh! There are thousands and thou- 
sands in London. Look in the " Telegraph." 

Carve. I haven't had a paper to-day. 

Janet. Any day will do. They're in all the 
papers every day. What's this [^taking up 
folded, dirty newspaper and opening iti ? Now 
let's see . . . well, what about this ? " A beauti- 
ful private hotel of the highest class. Luxur- 
iously furnished. Visitors comfort studied. Fi- 
nest position in London. Cuisine a specialty. 



48 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bath- 
room. Electric light. Separate tables. No ir- 
ritating extras. Single rooms from 2^ guineas. 
250 Queen's Gate." Quite close by ! [Carve says 
nothing.^ Perhaps that's a bit dear. Here's an- 
other : " Not a boarding-house. A magnificent 
mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb 
public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separ- 
ate tables. Four bathroomjs. Cardrooms. Bil- 
liard room. Vast lounge. Special sanitation. 
Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). 
Finest position in London. No irritating extras. 
Single rooms from two guineas." What about 
that.? 

Carve [shakes his head'\. I don't think I 
should fancy it. 

Janet. I won't say but what two guineas a 
week is a lot. 

Carve. And I was just thinking how cheap it 
was ! 

Janet \_staring~\ . Well, of course if you've got 
money to fling about ! 

Carve. Upon my soul I don't know what money 
I have got ! 

Janet. It'll be just as well to find out before 
you get into the street. 

Carve. Let's see. Well — there's seven pounds ! 
[Showing if.] And this [pulling silver and gold 
from another pocket^. Not much, is it? Six- 
teen shillings — and six-pence. It's true I've an 



ACT I 49 

annuity of eighty pounds — I was forgetting 
that 

Janet [pleased] . Have you indeed ! 

Carve. Yes. But an annuity isn't ready cash, 
is it? 

Janet [picking up Shawn's pocket hook] . And 
this? This seems rather thick. 

Carve. I was forgetting that, too. [Opens it, 
takes out many notes.] 

Janet. My word ! And you'd forgotten that! 
You ought to see a doctor. 

Carve [counting]. Twenty-one fives and ten 
tens. That makes two hundred and five pounds. 
[Half to himself.] I alwaj^s knew I was a bad 
lot — but where did I collar all that from? [To 
Janet.] I know what I shall do. I shall go to the 
Grand Babylon! 

Janet. The Grand Babylon Hotel! But it's 
the dearest hotel in London! 

Carve. In the big towns we always went to the 
best hotel. It's cheapest in the end. 

Janet. You're very persuasive, but you'll never 
make me believe you'll save money by staying at 
the Grand Babylon. 

Carve [rising and he ginning to collect things; 
tries to fold up a pair of trousers]. Now Mrs. 
Cannot, will you do me a favour? 

Janet. You'll spoil these trousers. Give them 
to me. . . [She takes trousers and folds them prop- 
erly.] 



50 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve. Will you come and lunch with me at 
the Grand Babylon to-morrow? 

Janet. But I've never been in such a place in 
my life ! 

Carve. Remember. You're my only friend. 
Will you come and lunch with me at the Grand 
Babylon to-morrow. 

Janet [timidly~\. I should like to [holding out 
trousers^. Enter Cyrus Carve. 

Cyrus. Oh ! 



[^Curtain. 1^ 



NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT II 

Father Looe. Aged 35; looks younger. Rather his- 
trionic in manner. Intensely conscious of his 
priestly vocation. Affects an ascetic appearance. 
Fond of oratorical effects in conversation. Sin- 
cere. No humour. Not a fool, but -his intellect 
is insufficient for the calls upon it. 

HoNORiA LooE. Aged 30. Earnest young woman, 
thoroughly accustomed to the most fashionable 
earnest official society. One of those excellent 
creatures who are always worrying about the seri- 
ousness of life and of art. 

Peter Horning. Aged 40. A vulgar and success- 
ful journalist. Gross. Rapid in movements and 
speech. Knows exactly what he is about. Ex- 
perience has taught him to have perfect faith in 
the influence of the vulgar press on the vulgar 
mind. He is a convinced person. 



ACT II 

Scene. — Private sitting-room at the GraTid 
Babylon Hotel, Strand; luxurious in the ho- 
tel-manner. Telephone. Door l, leading to 
corridor. Door n {iip stage) leading to bed- 
room. Another door (not used)leading to 
bathroom. 

Scene I. 

Time: — About noon on the following dg,y. 
Ham Carve and Janet are talking together. 

Carve. I'm really delighted to see yoiTi 

Janet [examining his features^. But surely 
you're not feeling very well? 

Carve. I'm not. Perhaps it's these sleepless 
nights I've had. 

Janet. You're shivering. 

Carve. I was wearing my dressing gown. I 
nearly always do when I'm alone. Do you think 
you'd mind if I put it on again? 

Janet. Do you mean to say you took it off 
because of me? [Seizing dressing gown, ■firmly.'] 
Mr. Shawn, will you oblige me by getting into this 
at once! [She helps him on with dressing gown.] 
What a beauty ! 

Carve. Yes, Cousin Cyrus thought so, too. 



ACT II 53 

He didn't want me to bring it away. Still, I beat 
him — on that point. \_Janet arranges the col- 
lar.^ Do you know, you do me good. 

Janet, I should think so! I suppose when 
gentlemen live alone they're pretty nearly always 
unwell, as it were. If it isn't a cold, it's stomach, 
I expect. And truly I'm not surprised — the way 
they go on. Now will you sit down in that chair 
and keep your legs covered — August or no Au- 
gust ! If you ask me, it's influenza you're sicken- 
ing for \_sound of distant orchestra^ Music? 

Carve [nodding, and sitting down in easy-chair^ . 
Well, and what's the news from outside ? I haven't 
stirred sfnc(^ yesterday noon. 

Janet. Seems to me there's no news except 
your Mr. Carve's death. 

Carve. Really ! Is it so much talked about as 
all that.? 

Janet. It's on all the posters — very big. AU 
along Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square and the 
Strand the newspaper boys, and the newspaper old 
men, too, are wearing it like aprons, as it were. 
I read the " Telegraph " myself. There was 
nearly a page of it in the " Telegraph." 

Carve [staggered]. Nearly a page of it in the 
" Telegraph " ! 

Janet. Yes. Besides a leading; article. 
Haven't you 

Carve. 1 never read obituaries of artists in the 
^papers. 



54 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet [drily']. Neither do I. But I should 
have thought you 

Carve. Well, they make me angry. Obitu- 
aries of archbishops aren't so bad. Newspapers 
seem to understand archbishops. But when they 
begin about artists — you cannot imagine the as- 
tounding nonsense they talk. 

Janet [protesting against his heat]. Now. 
You're still all on wires. Why should that make 
you angry .f^ 

Carve. What did the " Telegraph " say? Did 
you look at it? 

Janet. Oh, yes ! It appears Mr. Carve was a 
very eccentric person — avoiding society, and so 
on. 

Carve [resentful]. Eccentric! There you are! 
He wasn't eccentric in the least. The only society 
he avoided was the society of gaping fools. 

Janet. Well, I'm just telling you what it said. 
Then — let me see — w^hat else did it say? Oh! 
It said the sole question was whether Mr. Carve 
was the greatest painter since Velasquez — is that 
how you pronounce it? or whether he was the great- 
est painter that ever lived. 

Carve [interested]. Really! It said that? 

Janet [nodding]. You ought to read it. 

Carve. Upon my soul I think I must! [At- 
tempts to rise.] 

Janet. Now please don't move. What is it 
you want? 



ACT II 55 

Carve. I was only going to telephone and have 
the daily papers sent up. 

Janet, Where is the telephone? 

Carve [pointing']. There. 

Janet. So they've put a telephone in your 
room ? 

Carve. Telephone in every room. 

Janet [going to telephone]. Can I telephone 
for you? I never have telephoned, and I should 
like to. How do you do it? 

Carve. Just take that thing off the hook and 
talk into it. [Janet gingerly obeys.] It won't 
explode. 

Janet. What am I to say? 

Carve. Tell them to send me up all the daily 
papers at once. 

Janet. All ? 

Carve. Yes. 

Janet. But will they? 

Carve. Certainly. 

Janet [into telephone]. Please will you send 
up all the daily papers at once? 

Carve, Thanks very much. Now you can 
hang it up again. 

Janet. So this is the Grand Babylon Hotel! 
Well, it's a queer place. [Her eyes rove round 
the room.] 

Carve. What are you looking for? 

Janet. To speak plainly, I was looking for the 
bed. I must say I was rather surprised when the 



56 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

young man at the desk said I was to go up to your 
room. . . . But really, everything's so nicely ar- 
ranged. ... I suppose it's one of those folding 
beds that turn into bookcases and things. 

Carve [laughs]. No. This is my sitting- 
room. 

Janet. FoMr sitting-room ! [^Pointing to door 
R.] Then that's the bedroom? 

Carve. Yes. 

Janet [pointing to another door]. And what's 
that? 

Carve. That's my bathroom. In a big hotel 
I always take a^ suite, you know. It's so much 
more comfortable. 

Janet. Isn't it rather expensive? 

Carve. To tell the truth I didn't ask the price. 
[Knock at door.] 

Janet [charmingly tart]. I suppose it's what 
you call " cheapest in the end." 

Carve. Come in. [Enter Page with a pile of 
papers.] 

Carve. Thanks. Give them to me. [Exit 
Page.] 

Janet. Well, I never! It's like magic! 

Carve. Now, let's just glance at these chaps 
[unfolding a paper], 

Janet. Shall I help you? 

Carve. Why! Here's black borders and a 
heading across two columns ! " Death of England's 
Greatest Painter." " Irreparable loss to the 



ACT II 57 



world's art." " Our readers will be shocked 



Are they all like that? [More and more aston- 
ished takes another paper.~\ " Sad death of a 
great genius." 

Janet \_handing him still another paper"]. And 
this! 

Carve. " London's grief." " The news will 
come as a personal blow to every lover of great 
painting." But — but — I'd no notion of this ! 
[Half to himself. 1 It's terrible. 

Janet. Well, perhaps always living with him 
you wouldn't realise how important he was, would 
you.? [Distant music begins again, a waltz tune.] 

Carve [reading~\ . " Although possibly some- 
thing of a poseur in his choice of subjects . . ." 
The fellow's a fool ! Poseur, indeed ! 

Janet. Look at this. " Europe in mourning." 

Carve. Well — well ! 

Janet. What is that music? 

Carve. London's grief ! — It's the luncheon 
orchestra downstairs. [Telephone bell rings. ~\ 

Carve. Never mind it. Let 'em ring. I un- 
derstand now, why journalists and so on have been 
trying all day to see me. . . . Honestly, I'm 
— I'm staggered. [Telephone bell continues to 
ring.] 

Janet. It's a funny notion of comfort ; having 
a telephone in every room. How long will it keep 
on like that? 

Carve. I'll stop it. [Rising.] 



58 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet. No, no ! [Going to telephone and tak- 
ing receiver. 'I Yes? What's the matter? [Lis- 
tens, To Carve. ^ Oh! What do you think? 
Father Looe and his sister Miss Honoria Looe 
want to see you. 

Carve. Father Looe? Never heard of him. 

Janet. Oh. But you must have heard of him. 
He's the celebrated Roman Catholic preacher. 
He's a beautiful man. I heard him preach once 
on the Sins of Society. 

Carve. Would you mind saying I'm not at 
home ? 

Janet [obviously disappoint edl. Then won't 
you see him? 

Carve. Did you want to see him? 

Janet. I should like just to have had a look at 
him close to, as it were. 

Carve [gallantly~\ . Then you shall. Tell them 
to send them up, will you? 

Janet. And am I to stay here? 

Carve. Of course. 

Janet. Well, if anybody had told me this time 

last week ! [Into telephone.'] Please ask 

them to come up. 

Carve. Perhaps with your being here I shan't 
be quite so shy. 

Janet. Shy! Are you shy? It said in the 
" Telegraph " that Mr. Carve was painfully shy. 

Carve [protesting]. "Painfully." Who told 
them that, I should like to know. 



ACT II 59 

Janet, Now shyness is a thing I simply can't 
understand. I'm never shy. And you don't strike 
me as shy — far from it. 

Carve. It's very curious. I haven't felt a bit 
shy with you. 

Janet. Nobody ever is shy with me. 
[Ironic ally. ~\ I must say I'd give something to 
see you shy. [^Enter Father Looe and Honoria 
Looe announced by Page.~\ 

Looe \_stopping near door, at a loss^. Pardon 
me. Mr. Shawn.? Mr. Albert Shawn.? 

Carve [rising, perturbed]. Yes. 

Looe. This is your room? 

Carve. Yes. 

Looe. I'm afraid there's some mistake — I was 
given to understand that you were the — er — 
valet of the late Mr. Ham Carve. 

Honoria. Yes, Mr. Cyrus Carve told us 

Janet [coming to Carve's rescue as he remains 
speechless; very calmly] . Now there's another 
trick of Mr. Cyrus Carve's ! Valet indeed ! Mr. 
Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary — and almost 
companion. 

Looe. Ten thousand apologies ! Ten thousand 
apologies ! I felt sure 

Carve. Please sit down. [With a special gal- 
lantry towards Honoria.] 

Janet. And will you sit down too, Mr. Shawn ! 
[To the Looes.] He's not at all well. That's 
why he's wearing his dressing gown. 



60 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve \_introducmg'\. My friend Mrs. Janet 
Cannot. 

Looe. Now Mr. Shawn, if you know anything 
about me — if you have heard me preach, if you 
have read any of my books — you are probably 
aware that I am a man who goes straight to the 
point, hating subtleties. In connection with your 
late employer's death a great responsibility is 
laid upon me, and I have come to you for infor- 
mation — information which I have failed to ob- 
tain either from Mr. Cyrus Carve, or the doctor, 
or the nurse . . . was Mr. Carve a Catholic .^^ 

Carve. A Catholic? 

Looe. He came of a Catholic fai^ily, did he 
not? 

Carve. Yes — I believe so. 

Looe. The cousin, Mr. Cyrus Carve, I regret 
to say, denies the faith of his childhood — denies 
it, I also regret to say, with a vivacity that 
amounts almost to bad manners. In fact he was 
extremely rude to me when I tried to give him some 
idea of the tremendous revival of Catholicism which 
is the outstanding feature of intellectual life in 
England to-day. 

Carve. Ham Carve was not a Catholic. 

Looe. IMind, I do not ask if he died in the con- 
solations of the faith. I know that he did not. 
I have learnt that it occurred to neither you nor 
the doctor nor the nurse to send for a priest. 



ACT II 61 

Strange omission ! But not the fault of the dying 
man! 

Carve. Ham Carve was not a Catholic. 

Looe. Then what was he? 

Carve. Nothing in particular. 

Looe. Then I claim him! Then I claim him! 
. . . Honoria! 

Carve [in a new tone~\ . Look here — what's all 
this about? 

Looe [rising^. I will tell you at once what it 
is about, Mr. Shawn. There is a question of Ham 
Carve being buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Carve [^thunderstruck^. Buried in Westmin- 
ster Abbey ! 

Looe. Lady Leonard Alcar has consulted me 
about the matter. I may say that I have the hon- 
our to be her spiritual director. Probably you 
know that Lord Leonard Alcar owns the finest col- 
lection of Ham Carve's pictures in Europe. 

Janet. I've often wondered who it is that set- 
tles whether people shall be buried in the Abbey or 
not. So it's Lady Leonard Alcar ! 

Looe. Not exactly ! Not exactly ! But Lady 
Leonard Alcar is a " great lady." She has vast 
influence. The most influential convert to Cathol- 
icism of the last thirty years ! She is aunt to no 
less than four dukes, and Lord Leonard is uncle to 
two others. 

Carve [ironically^. I quite see. 



62 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Looe [eogerly~\. You see — don't you? Her 
advice on these matters carries enormous weight. 
A suggestion from her amounts to — to 

Carve. A decree absolute. 

Janet [simply']. Is she what they call the rul- 
ing classes? 

Looe \hows]. Lady Leonard and I have talked 
the matter over, and I pointed out to her that if 
this great genius was a Member of the Church 
of England, and if the sorrowing nation at large 
deems him worthy of the supreme honour of a 
national funeral, then by all means let him be 
buried in the Abbey. But if he was a Catholic, 
then I claim him for Westminster Cathedral, that 
magnificent fane which we have raised as a symbol 
of our renewed vitality. Now was he a member of 
the Church of England? 

Carve [loudly]. Decidedly not. 

Looe. Good ! Then I claim him — I detest 
casuistry, and I claim him. I have only one other 
question. You knew him well — intimately — for 
many years. On your conscience, Mr. Shawn, 
what interment, in your opinion, would he himself 
have preferred? 

Janet [after a pause] . It wouldn't make much 
difference to him either way, would it? 

Carve [with an outburst]. The whole thing is 
preposterous. 

Looe [ignoring the outburst]. My course seems 
quite clear, I shall advise Lady Leonard 



ACT II 63 

Carve. Don't you think you're rather young to 
be in sole charge of this country? 

Looe ^smoothly]. My dear sir, I am nothing 
but a humble priest, who gives counsel when coun- 
sel is sought. And I may say that in this af- 
fair of the interment of our great national painter, 
there are other influences than mine. For in- 
stance my sister, Honoria, w^ho happens also to 
be president of the Ladies' Water Colour Society 
[gestures of alarm from Carve~\ — my sister has 
a great responsibility. She is the favourite 
niece of \_Whispers in Carvers ear/\ Con- 
sequently \^Ma}x:es an impressive pause S\ 

Honoria. You see my uncle is a bachelor, and 
I keep house for him. Anselm used to live with 
us too, until he left the Church 

Looe. Until I joined the Church, Honoria! 
Now Honoria wishes to be perfectly fair; she en- 
tirely realises her responsibility ; and that is why 
she has come w^ith me to see you. 

Janet [henignantly^. So that's how these 
things are decided! I see I'd got quite a wrong 
notion of politics and so on. 

Honoria 

Janet 
\_toget}ier'\ 

Oh Mr. Shawn 

My idea was 

Honoria. I beg your pardon. 

Janet. I beg yours 



64> THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Honoria. There's one question I should so like 
to ask you, Mr. Shawn. In water colours did 
Mr. Carve use Chinese white freely, or did he stick 
to transparent colour — like the old English 
school. I wonder if you understand me. 

Carve [interested]. He used Chinese white like 
anything. 

Honoria. Oh! I'm so glad. You remember 
that charming water colour of the Venetian gon- 
dolier in the Luxembourg — we had a great argu- 
ment after we got home last Easter as to whether 
the oar was put in with Chinese white — or just 
" left out " — you know ! 

Carve. Chinese white of course. My notion is 
that it doesn't matter a fig how you get your ef- 
fects so long as you do get them. 

Honoria. And that was his notion too.^* [Tele- 
phone hell rings. Janet answers it.] 

Carve. His ? Rather ! You bet it was ! 

Honoria. I'm so glad! I'm so glad. I knew 
I was right about Chinese white. Oh! Anselm, 
do let him be buried in the Abbey ! Do let me 
suggest to uncle 

Looe. My dear girl, ask your conscience! 
Enthusiasm for art I can comprehend ; I can even 
sympathise with it. But if this grave national 
question is to be decided by considerations of Chi- 
nese white [Carve turns to Janet as if for 

succour,] 



ACT II 65 

Janet [c«7w/?/]. The doctor is just coming 
up. 

Carve. The Doctor! What doctor? 

Janet. A Dr. Horning. He says he's Dr. Pas- 
coe's assistant and he attended Mr. Carve, and he 
wants to see you. 

Carve. But I don't want to see him. 

Janet. You'll have to see a doctor. 

Carve. Why.? 

Janet. Because 3^ou're ill. So you may just as 
well see this one as another. They're all pretty 
much of a muchness. J[Enter Peter Horning, 
boisterously/. A page hoy opens the door hut does 
not announce liim.~\ 

P. Horning [perceiving Looe first~\. Ah, 
Father! You here! How d'ye do? What did 
you think of my special on last Sunday's sermon? 
[Shakes hand with Looe and hows to Miss Looe as 
to an acquaintance.^ 

Looe. Very good ! Very good. 

P. Horning [advancing to Carve~\ . Mr. Shawn, 
I presume? 

Carve [glancing helplessly at Janet]. But this 
isn't the doctor. 

P. Horning [voluhly~\. Admitted! Admitted! 
I'm only his brother — a journalist. I'm on the 
" Courier," and the " Mercury," and several other 
Worgan papers. One of our chaps failed to get 
in to this room this morning, so I came along to 
try what / could do. You see what I've done. 



66 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet, Well, I never came across such a set of 
people in my life ! 

P. Horning [aside to Looe']. Is he in service 
here, or what? 

Looe. Mr. Shawn was Mr. Carve's secretary 
and companion, not his valet. 

P. Horning [puzzled, but accepting the situa- 
tion~\. Ah! So much the better! Now, Mr. 
Shawn, can you tell me authoritatively whether 
shortly before his death Mr. Carve was engaged 
to be married, under romantic circumstances, to a 
lady of high rank? 

Honoria. Indeed ! 

Carve. Who told you that? 

P. Horning. Then he was ! 

Carve. I've nothing to say. 

P. Horning. You won't tell me her name? 

Carve. I've nothing to say. 

P. Horning. Secondly, I'm instructed to offer 
something considerable for your signature to an 
account of Ham Carve's eccentric life on the con- 
tinent. 

Carve. Eccentric life on the continent ! 

P. Horning. I shouldn't keep you half an hour 
— three-quarters at most. A hundred pounds. 
Cash down, you know. Bank notes. 

Carve [to Janet, exhausted but disdainful . 1 
wouldn't mind signing an order for the fellow's 
execution. 

P. Horning. A hundred and fifty. 



ACT II 61 

\ 

Carve. Or burning at the stake. 

P. Horning [to Looe~\. What does he say? 

Looe. Mr. Shawn is indisposed. We've just 
been discussing the question of the burial in the 
Abbey. I think I may say, if it interests you as 
an item of news, that Ham Carve will not be buried 
in the Abbey. 

P. Horning [Jightlyl. 0^? J^s he will, Father. 
There was a little doubt about it, until we got par- 
ticulars of his will this morning. But his will 
settled it. 

Looe. His will? 

P. Horning. Yes. Didn't you know? No, 
you wouldn't tell ! Well, his estate will come out 
at about a couple of hundred thousand, and he's 
left it practically all for an International Gallery 
of Modem Art in London. Very ingenious plan. 
None of your Chantry Bequest business. Three 
pictures and one piece of sculpture are to be bought 
each year in London. Fixed price, £400 each, 
large or small. Trustees are to be business men 
— bank directors. But they can't choose the 
works. The works are to be chosen by the stu- 
dents at South Kensington and the Academy 
Schools. Works by R.A.'s and A.R.A.'s are abso- 
lutely barred. Also works by students themselves 
are absolutely barred. Cute, that, eh? That's 
the arrangement for England. Similar arrange- 
ment for France, Italy and Germany. He gives 
the thing a start by making it a present of his own 



68 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

collection, stored somewhere in Paris. I don't 
mean his own paintings — he bars those. Un- 
usually modest, eh? 

Honoria. How perfectly splendid ! We shall 
haev a real live gallery at last. Surely, Anselm, 
after that 

Looe. Quite beside the point. I shall certainly 
oppose. 

P. Horning. Oppose what? 

Looe. The burial in the Abbey. I shall advise 
Lady Leonard Alcar 

P. Horning. No use, Father ! Take my word ! 
The governor's made up his mind. He's been fear- 
fully keen on art lately — I don't know why. We 
were in front of everybody else with the news of 
Ham Carve's death, and the governor's making a 
regular pet of him. He says it's quite time we 
buried an artist in Westminster Abbey, and he's 
given instructions to the whole team. Didn't you 
see the " Mercury " this morning? Anybody who 
opposes a national funeral for Ham Carve will be 

up against the governor Of course, I tell 

you that as a friend — confidentially. 

Looe [shaken^. Well, I shall see what Lady 
Leonard says. 

Carve \_rising in an angry, scornful outhursf]. 
You'd bury him in Westminster Abbey because he's 
a philanthropist, not because he's an artist ! 
That's England all over! . . . Well, I'm 
hanged if I'll have it ! 



ACT II 69 



Looe. But, my dear sir 

Carve. And I can tell you another thing — 
he's not dead! [Sinks hack into his chair. ^ 

P. Horning [^aside to Looe^. Is he mad, 
Father? Nothing but a clerk, after all! And 
yet he takes a private room at the Grand Babylon, 
and then he refuses a hundred and fifty of the best, 
and goes on like this ! 

Looe. I really think we ought to leave. 

Honoria [to Janet]. He's upset, poor thing! 
But how charming he is ! 

Janet [prudently resenting Honoria^s interest 
in Carve~\. Yes, he's upset. Who wouldn't he? 

Honoria. But what does it mean? 

Janet [ciirtlyl. I expect it just means he pre- 
fers quiet funerals — and cremation. After all, 
when you're cremated you do know where you are. 
You are sure of not being buried alive. [She goes 
towards Carve. ~\ 

Horning. Touched, if you ask me! [Moving 
to leave.] 

Looe [moving to leave] . Honoria ! 

Janet [to Carve]. So this is what you call be- 
ing shy ! 

Carve [to Janet, wJw is now bending over him]. 
It must be stopped. 

Janet [as the others go out; humouring him]. 
Yes, yes. [Absently, in reply to bows and adieux 
of Looe, Honoria, and P. Horning. Good morn- 
ing ! [When they are gone; with a sigh of relief.] 



70 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Well, it is a mighty queer place ! . . . My 
word, how cold your hands are ! \^Going quickly 
to telepJwne and speaking into telephone.~\ Please 
send up two hot-water bottles at once. 
Yes, hot-water bottles. Never heard of a hot- 
water bottle before? \_Curtain falls for a few 
minutes to indicate passage of time.~\ 

Scene II. 
Time. — Afternoon four days later. Janet is doz- 
ing in an easy-chair. Enter Carve, in his 
dressing-gown. 

Janet \^starting up^. Mr. Shawn, what are you 
doing out of bed? After such a dose of flu as you 
had! 

Carve. I'm doing nothing out of bed [^twiddles 
his thumbs']. 

Janet. But you've no right to be out of bed at 
all. 

Carve. I was afraid I hadn't. But I called 
and called, and there was no answer. So then I 
began to argue the point — Why not get up? 
I'd had a tremendous long sleep. I felt singularly 
powerful. And I thought you'd gone home. 

Janet. Nay — that you never did ! 

Carve. I did, honestly. 

Janet. Do you mean to say you thought for a 
single moment I should go home and leave you like 
that? 

Carve. Yes. But of course I thought you 
might be coming back sooner or later. 



ACT II 71 

Janet. Well, I never ! 

Carve. You've scarcely left me for three dayg 
and three nights, Mrs. Cannot, so far as I remem- 
ber. Surely it was natural for me to suppose 
that you'd gone home to your own affairs. 

Janet \_sarcastically^. It didn't occur to you I 
might have dropped off to sleep? 

Carve. Now don't be angry. I'm only con- 
valescent. 

Janet. Will you kindly march right back to 
bed this instant ! 

Carve. No, I'm dashed if I do ! 

Janet. I beg pardon ! 

Carve. I say I'm dashed if I do ! I won't stir 
until I've thanked you. I've been ill. I don't 
know how many times, but this is the first time in 
my life I've ever enjoyed being ill. D'you know 
[witli an ingenuous air^ I'd really no idea what 
nursing was ! 

Janet [drily]. Hadn't you? Well, if you call 
that nursing, I don't. But it was the best I could 
do in this barracks, with the kitchen a mile and a 
half off and a pack of men that can't understand 
English gaping at you all day in evening dress. 
I daresay this is a very good hotel for reading 
newspapers in, but if you want anything that isn't 
on the menu, it's as bad as drawing money out of 
the post-office savings bank. You should see me 
nurse in my own house. 

Carve. I should like to. Even in " this bar- 



72 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

racks " \_imitating her^ you've quite altered my 
view of life. 

Janet. Yes, and it wanted altering! When I 
think of you and that other poor fellow wandering 
about all alone on that continent — without the 
slightest notion of what comfort is. . . . 
Well, I'll say this, it's a pleasure to nurse you. 
Now will you go to bed ! 

Carve. I suppose coffee's on the menu? 

Janet. Coffee ? 

Carve. I think I should like some cafe-au-lait, 
and a roll. 

Janet [rising~\. You can have hot milk if you 
like. 

Carve. All right. And then when I've had it 
I'll go to bed. 

Janet [af telephone^. Are you there? 

Carve \_picking up a sheet of paper from table^ . 
Hello ! What's this ? Hotel-bill — receipted ? 

Janet. I should think so, indeed ! They sent 
it up the second day — [into telepJione.^ Hot milk, 
please, and let it he hot. [^Hanging up telephone; 
to Carve.~\ I expect they were afraid for their 
money, through people saying that you were Mr. 
Carve's valet. 

Carve. And you paid it? 

Janet. I took the money out of your pockets 
and I just paid it. I never said a word. But if 
you hadn't been ill, I should have said something ! 
Of all the swindles — of all the barefaced swin- 



ACT II 73 

dies ! Do you see what it's costing you to live 
here — a day ? 

Carve. Oh! Not much above four pounds, I 
hope. 

Janet [speechless at first^. Any woman that 
knew her business could keep you for a month — a 
month — for less than you spend here in a day — 
and better! And better! Look there, "Bis- 
cuits 1/6." 

Carve. Well? 

Janet. "Well"! [confidentially earnest^. 
Will you believe me when I tell you there wasn't a 
pennyworth of biscuits on that plate! Do you 
think I don't know what biscuits are a pound? 

Carve. Really ! 

Janet [ironically^ . " Cheapest in the end " — 
but I should say the end's a long way off. 

Carve [who has picked up another paper^. 

What? Admit Mr. Albert Shawn to Westminster 

Abbey, cloisters' entrance. . . . Funeral 

. . Tuesday. . . . That's to-day, isn't 

it? 

Janet. Yes. 

Carve [moved^. But you told me he wasn't go- 
ing to be buried in Westminster Abbey ! 

Janet. I know. 

Carve. You told me Cyrus Carve had insisted 
on cremation ! 

Janet [with vivacity']. And what did you ex- 
pect me to tell you? I had to soothe you some- 



74 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

how. You were just about delirious. I was afraid 
if I told you the truth you'd be doing something 
silly — seeing the state you were in. Then it 
struck me a nice plain cremation at Woking was 
the very thing to keep you quiet. 

Carve \_stiU more moved^. Then he's 

Janet, Yes, I should say all is over by this 
time. There was thousands of people for the ly- 
ing-in-state, it seems. 

Carve. But it's awful! Absolutely awful! 

Janet. Why is it awful? 

Carve. I told you — I explained the whole 
thing to you ! 

Janet [humorously remonstrating']. Mr. Shawn. 
Surely you've got rid of that idea! You aren't 
delirious now! You said you were convalescent, 
you know. 

Carve. There'll be a perfect hades of a row! 
I must write to the Dean at once. I must 

Janet [soothingly']. I shouldn't if I were you. 
Why not let things be ? No one would believe that 
tale 

Carve. Do you believe it? 

Janet [perfunctorily]. Oh, yes! 

Carve. No you don't. Honestly, do you, now? 

Janet. Well — [knock at door] , Come in. 
[Enter waiter with hot milk.] 

Janet. Here's your hot milk. 

Waiter. Miss Looe has called. 

Carve. I must see her. 



ACT II 75 



Janet. But 



Carve. I must see her! \^Exit waiter.l 

Janet. Oh, very well. She's telephoned each 
day to enquire how you were. She asked if you 
wanted a seat for the funeral. I told her you 
couldn't possibly go, but I was sure you'd like to 
be invited — whether it was the Abbey or not. 
Please don't forget your milk. \_Enter Honoria 
(in mourning), introduced hy waiter. 

Honoria [coming in quickly, howing to Janet, 
land shaking liands with Carve~\ . Good afternoon ! 
Please don't rise. I've heard how ill you've been. 
I've only called because I simply had to ! 

Carve. It's very kind of you. 

Honoria. Oh, Mr. Shawn, I know you didn't 
want him to be buried in the Abbey. Fm all for 
quiet funerals, too. But really this was an excep- 
tional case, and I think if you'd seen it, you'd have 
been glad they did decide on the Abbey. Oh ! 
You've no idea how impressive it was ! The Abbey 
is always so fine, isn't it? And it was crammed. 
You never saw such a multitude of distinguished 
people — I mean really distinguished — all in 
black, except of course the uniforms ! Royalties, 
ambassadors ! Representatives from all the Acad- 
emies — all over Europe. Rodin was there ! The 
whole of artistic London came. I don't mean only 
painters, but poets, novelists, sculptors and mu- 
sicians. The art students had a corner to them- 
selves. And you should have seen the crowds out- 



76 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

side ! All traffic was stopped up as far as Trafal- 
gar Square.- I've had some difficulty in getting 
here. The sun was shining through the stained 
glass. And the music was magnificent. And then 
when the coffin was carried down the nave — well, 
there was only one wreath on the pall — just one 

— a white crown — all the other wreaths were 
piled near the screen — scores and scores of them 

— the effect was tremendous. I nearly cried. A 
lot of people did cry. [Genuinely moved.^ There 
was that great genius lying there ! . . . He'd 
never done anything except put paint on canvas ; 
and yet — and yet — Well, it made you feel 
somehow that England does care for art, after all ! 

Carve [after a pause^. And whom have we to 
thank for this beautiful national manifestation of 
sympathy with art? 

Honoria. How do you mean? 

Carve [with an attempt at cold irony, but yet 
in a voice imperfectly controlled^. Did your 
brother relent and graciously permit I^ady Leon- 
ard Alcar to encourage a national funeral? Or 
was it due solely to the influence of the newspapers 
written by people of refined culture like the man 
who gave his opinion the other day that I was 
" touched " ? Or perhaps you yourself settled it 
with your esteemed uncle over a cup of tea. 

Honoria. Of course, Mr. Shawn, any one can 
see that you're artistic yourself, and artists are 



ACT II 77 

generally very sarcastic about the British public. 
I know I am. . . . Now don't you paint.? 

Carve [shrugging his shoulders']. I used to — 
a little. 

Honorla. I was sure of it. Well, you can be 
as sarcastic as you like, but do you know what I 
was thinking during the service.'^ — I was think- 
ing — if only he could have seen it ? If only Ham 
Carve could have seen it — instead of lying cold in 

that coffin under that wreath — he'd \_hesi- 

tating] . 

Carve [interrupting her, in a different, resolved 
tone]. Miss Looe, I suppose you're on very con- 
fidential terms with your uncle? 

Honoria. Naturally ? Why ? 

Carve. Will you give him a message from me? 

— He'll do perhaps better than anybody. 
Honoria. With pleasure. 

Carve [moved] . It's something very important 

— very important indeed ! In fact [Janet 

goes into bedroom, but, keeping near the doorway, 
does not actually disappear,] 

Honoria. Yes ? 

Carve. I [He suddenly stands up, and 

then falls back into chair. Janet returns quickly^ 
to the room.] 

Honoria [alarmed], I'm afraid he isn't quite 
well yet. 

Carve. No ! I — I can't tell you ! At least, 



78 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

not now ! . . . Thanks very much for calling. 
\_Rises brusquely and walks towards bedroom door.^ 

Janet [^to Honoria^, He's not really strong 
enough to see visitors. 

Honoria. What is it.? IGoing to door.~\ 

Janet. Oh! Influenza! Sometimes it takes 
'em in the head and sometimes in the stomach. 
It's taken him in the head. 

Honoria. Charming man ! I don't suppose 
there's the least likelihood of it — he's evidently 
very well off — but if he should be wanting a situa- 
tion similar to his last — I'm sure my uncle 

Janet [positively and curtly^. I don't think so. 

Honoria. Of course, you know him very well.? 

Janet. Well, it's like this. I'm his cousin. 
We aren't exactly engaged to be married 

Honoria. Oh! I see! Good afternoon. 

Janet. Good afternoon! [Exit Honoria.~\ 

Carve [who has hesitatingly wandered bach 
towards centre, in a quite different tone now that he 
is alone again with Janet^. What's this about be- 
ing engaged to be married ! 

Janet [smiling']. I was telling her we weren't 
engaged to be married. That's true, I suppose.? 

Carve. But are we cousins? 

Janet. Yes. I've got my reputation to think 
about. I don't want to coddle it, but there's no 
harm in just keeping an eye on it. 

Carve. I see [sits down]. 

Janet. If nothing comes of all this 



ACT II 79 

Carve. All what? 

Janet. All this illness and nursing and sitting 
up at nights — then I'm just your cousin and no 
harm done. 

Carve. But do you mean to say you'd be ready 
to marry me if I asked you? 

Janet [after reflection^ . Not so fast. Do you 
mean to say you're going to ask me? 

Carve. But you're convinced I'm not right in 
my head ! 

Janet. If we were to let that stop us, there 
wouldn't be much marrying. 

Carve. Now seriously 

Janet. Well seriously — if you really believe 
what you told me about your being somebody else, 
why didn't you tell her ladj^ship? 

Carve. I couldn't. 

Janet. No, I shouldn't think not indeed ! 
You've been reading too much Druce case — that's 
what's the matter with you — that and influenza ! 
All you want to put you straight is a sensible, com- 
fortable life — and a bit less of this racketty con- 
tinent business [pause. She continues reflec- 
tively^. Do you know what struck me while her 
ladyship was telling us about all the grand doings 
at the funeral! . . . What good has it ever 
done him to be celebrated and make a big splash 
in the world? Was he any happier for it? From 
all I can hear he was always trying to hide just 
as if the police were after him. He never had the 



80 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

slightest notion of comfort — and so you needn't 
tell me ! And there's another thing — you needn't 
tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl 
or other, because I know he was. A bachelor at his 
age never thinks about anything else — morning, 
noon, and night. It stands to reason — and they 
can say what they like — I know! And now he's 
dead, — probably because he'd no notion of looking 
after himself — and it's been in all the papers how 
wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very 
likely sat up half the night making wreaths, and 
Westminster Abbey was crowded out with fash- 
ionable folk — and do you know what all those 
fashionable folk are thinking about just now — 
Tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whiskey and soda. 

Carve. You're saying all this to cure me of my 
delusion 

Janet, I'm saying the truth. 

Carve. But you mustn't forget that he was 
really very successful indeed. Just look at the 
money he made, for instance. 

Janet. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to 
him, he'd never have left two hundred thousand of 
them behind him — him with no family ! No, he 
was no better than a fool with money. Couldn't 
even spend it. 

Carve. He had the supreme satisfaction of do- 
ing w^hat he enjoyed doing better than anybody 
else could do it. 

Janet. And what was that.'' 



ACT II 81 

Carve. Painting. 

Janet [casually^ . Oh ! And couldn't he have 
had that without running about all over Europe? 
He might just as well have been a commercial 
traveller. Take my word for It. Mr. Shawn, 
there's nothing like a comfortable home and a 
quiet life — and the less you're in the newspapers 
the better. 

Carve [thoughtfully^. D'you know — a good 
deal of what you say applies to me. 

Janet. And you now! As we're on the subject 
— before we go any further — you're a bachelor 
of forty-five, same as him. What have you been 
doing with yourself lately? 

Carve. Doing with myself? 

Janet. Well, I think I ought to ask because 
when I was stealing [with a little nervous laugh^ 
the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel 
bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't 
help coming across It. , . . Seeing how things 
are, I think I ought to ask. 

Carve. Oh ! That! It must be a photograph 
of the lady he was engaged to. He broke it off, 
you know. That was why we came to London In 
such a hurry. 

Janet. Then it is true — what the newspaper 
reporter said? [Carve nods.^ One of the aris- 
tocracy? [Carve nods.^ Who was she? 

Carve. Lady Alice Rowfant. 

Janet. What was it doing in your pocket? 



82 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve. I don't know. Everything got mixed 
up. Clothes, papers, everything. 

Janet. Sure ? 

Carve. Of course. Look here, do you suppose 
Lady Alice Rowfant is anything to me? 

Janet. She isn't? 

Carve. No. 

Janet. Honestly [looMng at him closely'\ .? 

Carve. Honestly. 

Janet [with obvious relief^. Well, that's all 
right then. Now will you drink this milk, please ! 

Carve. I just wanted to tell you 

Janet. Will you drink this milk! [Pours out 
a glassful for him.'\ [Carve addresses himself to 
the milk. Janet begins to put on her things.'] 

Carve. But I say, what are you doing? 

Janet. I'm going home. 

Carve. What? Now? 

Janet. At once. 

Carve. But you can't leave me like this. I'm 
very ill. 

Janet. Oh! No you aren't. You're very 
much better. Anyone can see that. All you've 
got to do is to return to bed and stick to slops. 

Carve. And when shall you come back? 

Janet. You might come down to see me one 
day at Putney. 

Carve. I shall be delighted tol But before 
that, won't you come here? 



ACT II 8S 

Janet [after a pause'\. I'll try and come the 
day after to-morrow. 

Carve. Why not to-morrow? 

Janet. Well, a couple of days without me'll do 
you no harm. It's a mistake to be in a hurry 
when you've got all your life in front of you. 

Carve [after a pause^. Listen — have some 
tea before you go. 

Janet. No. [Holds out her hand, smiling.li 
Good afternoon. Now do go to bed. 

Carve. I haven't begun to thank you. 

Janet. No — and I hope you won't begin. 

Carve. You're so sudden. 

Janet. It's sudden or nothing. 

Carve [holding her hand^. 1 say — what can 
you see in me? 

Janet. Well, if it comes to that — what can 
3^ou see in me [withdrawing her hand] ? 

Carve. I — I don't know what it is ! . . . 
Something. . . . Everyihingl 

Janet. That's too much! Good-bye! I'll 
come about this time the day after to-morrow. 

Carve. Supposing I have a relapse? 

Janet [at door]. You won't, if you do as I 
tell you. 

Carve. But supposing I do? 

Janet. Well, you can always telegraph, can't 
you? [Exit. After finishing milk, suddenly gets 
up and searches on writing table; he then goes to 
the telephone. '\ 



84 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve [into telephone^. Please send me up a 
telegraph-form. \^He -finds photograph of Lady 
Alice Rowfant and tears it methodically to pieces. 
Enter Page with telegraph forms.'] 

Carve. Wait a moment \^after writing out tele- 
gram] . Send this off at once. Here — a shil- 
ling. 

Page [^taking telegram]. Yes, sir. What's 
this word, sir? "Relapse".? 

Carve. Yes. " Relapse. Carve." That's all. 
Here. Half a second ! " Carve " is a mistake 
Intakes form and corrects it]. " Mrs. Cannot, 200 
Werter Road, Putney. Relapse. Shawn." 
S-h-a-w-n. Eight words. Off with you! 

Page. Yes, sir. 

Carve [stopping Page]. Here. Give it me 
back. \_Alters telegram.] " Serious relapse." 
That's better. 

Page. Yes, sir. \_Eocit. Alone^ Carve begins 
to execute a discreet dance.] 



[Curtain.] 



NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT III 

Mr. Ebag. Aged 45. A handsome, well-dressed, 
well-mannered Jew. His demeanour is always 
quiet and modest, but he has great confidence in 
himself. 

John and James Shawn. Aged 25. Two perfectly 
ordinary curates. The scene in which they ap- 
pear must on no account be played in the vein of 
low comedy. They have done their best to meet 
in a dignified way the situation in which they find 
themselves. They are not equal to that situation; 
they are rather ridiculous in it, but they are not 
farcically ridiculous. 

Mrs. Shawn. Their mother. Aged 50. A feeble, 
unimportant soul, rather wornout by life. 



ACT III 

Scene. — Parlour of Janefs house in Putney. A 
perfectly ordinary suburban interior of a 
small house; but comfortable. Table in cen- 
tre. . .Door R up stage, leading to hall. . .Door 
L, down stage, leading to kitchen and back 
premises. Rather more than two years have 
elapsed. 

Scene I. 

Time. — Morning in early autumn. Carve reading 
newspaper at breakfast table. Janet, in an 
apron, is hovering busily near him. 

Janet [putting cigarettes and matches down be- 
side Carve^. Want anything else, dear? [No 
answer from Carve. ^ Because I must set about 
my morning's work. [Carve continues to read.~\ 
Albert, are you sure you don't want anything else.? 
[As he still gives no sign of attention, she snatches 
the paper away from him, and throws it on the 
floor. 

Carve [not having moved his eyes']. The pat- 
tern of this jag is really not so bad. 
Yes, my soul.? 

Janet. I've asked you I don't know how many 



ACT III 87 

times whether you want anything else, because I 
must set about my morning's work. 

Carve, Is there any more coffee? 

Janet. Yes, plenty. 

Carve. Hot? 

Janet. Yes. 

Carve. Then I don't want any. Got any ba- 
con? 

Janet. No, but I can cook a slice in a minute. 

Carve [with an affectation of martyrdoTn], 
Doesn't matter! 

Janet. Oh yes I will ! [Moving away.~\ 

Carve [drawing her to him hy her apron^. 
Can't you see he's teasing you? 

Janet. She's got no time in the morning for 
being teased. [She takes a cigarette, lights it, 
[and immediately puts it in his mouth.'\ 

Carve. And now you're going to leave me? 

Janet. Sure you're all right? [He nods.^ 
Quite sure you're happy? 

Carve. Jane 

Janet. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane. 

Carve. But I w^ill call you Jane. Jane, why 
do you ask me if I'm sure I'm happy? When a 
man has first class food and first class love, to- 
gether with a genuine French bed, really water- 
proof boots, a constant supply of hot water in 
the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes 
and sixpenny editions, the freedom to do what he 
likes all day and every day, and — let me see, what 



88 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

else — a complete absence of domestic servants, — 
then either that man is happy or he is a silly 
cuckoo. 

Janet. You aren't getting tired 

Carve. My sweet child, what's the matter with 
you? 

Janet. Nothing, nothing! Only to-day's the 
second anniversary of our wedding — and you've 
— you've said nothing about it. 

Carve [after a shocked pause~\. And I forgot 
it last year, didn't I? I shall be forgetting my 
dinner next. 

Janet. Oh no you won't ! 

Carve. And yet all last week I was thinking 
about this most important day, and telling myself 
I must remember it. 

Janet. Very easy to say that. But how can 
you prove it? 

Carve. Well, it does just happen that the 
proof is behind the sideboard. 

Janet. A present? 

Carve. A present. It was all ready and wait- 
ing five days ago. 

Janet [drawing a framed 'picture from hehinS 
the sideboard; trying to hide her disappointment 
hut not quite succeeding'] . Oh ! A picture ! 
Who is it? [Examines it with her nose close 
to it.] 

Carve. No, no! You can't take a picture like 
snuff! Get away from it! [He jumps up. 



ACT III 89 

snatches the picture from her, and exposes it on a 
chair at the other side of the room.'\ Now! [He 
sits down agai/n.^ 

Janet. Yes, it doesn't look quite so queer like 
that. Those are my cooking-sleeves and that 
seems a bit like my kitchen — that's my best copper 
pan ! ... Is the young woman meant to be 
me? 

Carve. Well, not to beat about the bush, yes. 

Janet. I don't consider it very flattering. 

Carve. How many times have you told me you 
hate flattery? 

Janet [running to /^^m]. Now he's hurt! Oh, 
he's hurt! \_Kissing him.^ It's a beautiful pic- 
ture, and the frame's lovely! And she's so glad 
he didnt forget! 

Carve. It is pretty good. In fact it's devilish 
good. It's one of the best things I ever did in 
my life. Old Carve would have got eight hun- 
dred for that like a shot. 

Janet [sceptically']. Would he? It's wonder- 
ful how wonderful people are when they're dead. 

Carve. And now will she let him finish reading 
his paper? 

Janet [handing him the paper; then putting 
her head close to his and looking at the paper.] 
What was it he was reading that made him so 
deaf he couldn't hear his wife when she spoke to 
him? 

Carve. This. 



90 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet \_reading~\. "Ham Carve's princely be- 
quest. The International Gallery of Art. Foun- 
dation stone laying. Eloquent speech by Lord 
Rosebery." Oh ! So they've begun it at last ! 

Carve. Yes, they've begun it at last. 

Janet. Well, if you ask me, I should have 
thought he could have found something better to 
do with his money. 

Carve. As for example? 

Janet. Well. I should have thought there 
were more than enough picture galleries as it is. 
Who wants 'em? Even when they're free, people 
won't go into them, unless it's a wet day. I've 
never been in a free picture gallery yet that wasn't 
as empty as a church. . . . Stands to rea- 
son ! It isn't even a cinematograph. When I see 
rows of people in Trafalgar Square waiting to get 
into the National Gallery then I shall begin to 
think it's about time we had some more galleries. 
If I'd been Ham Carve 

Carve. Well, what should you have done, 
witch ? 

Janet. I should have left a bit more to you, for 
one thing. 

Carve. I don't want more. If he'd left me 
eight hundred a year instead of eighty, I shouldn't 
be any happier. That's just what I've learnt 
since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, 
Jane — money and fame have no connection what- 
ever with happiness. 



ACT III 91 

Janet. Money has, when you haven't got 
enough. 

Carve. But I have. You won't hear of me 
paying more than half the household expenses, and 
you say they're never more than thirty shillings a 
week. Half thirty — fifteen. Look at the bal- 
ance it leaves me. 

Janet. And supposing I had to ask you to pay 
more ? 

Carve [in a serious sympathetic tone, startled^. 
Anything wrong? 

Janet. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were 
yet, 

Carve. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding 
something from me. 

Janet [with difficulty pulls a letter from her 
pocket^ . No 

Carve. I've felt it for several days. 

Janet. You just haven't, then! Because I 
only got it this morning. Here, you may as well 
read it. [Handing him the letter. ^^ It's about 
the brewery. 

Carve [reading']. "Mrs. Albert Shawn. Sir 
or Madam." There it is again. Why are share- 
holders never supposed to have any particular 
sex? " Sir or Madam. Cohoon's Brewery Lim- 
ited, I am directed by the shareholders' provisional 
committee of investigation to request your attend- 
ance at an informal meeting of shareholders to 
be held in room 2009 Winchester House on Fri- 



92 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

day, the 20th inst., at noon. If you cannot be 
present will you kindly write stating whether or 
not you will be prepared to support the commit- 
tee of investigation at the Annual Meeting. In 
view of the probability that the directors' report 
will be unfavourable, and the ordinary dividend 
either passed entirely or much reduced, the com- 
mittee wishes to be thoroughly prepared and 

armed. Believe me, sir or madam " Oh ! 

So that's it, is it? 

Janet. Yes. My father said to me before he 
died, " Keep the money in beer, Janet," he said 
" Beer'll never fail, in this country." And there 
you are! [^She goes to -fireplace, opens coal-scut- 
tle, takes out a piece of paper ready placed mthin, 
and sticks it on the handle so as to keep her hands 
from being soiled as she replenishes the fire.'] 

Carve [lightly]. Oh well! We must wait and 
see what happens. 

Janet. Supposing the dividend doesn't happen.? 

Carve. I never worry about money. 

Janet. But we shall want to eat once or twice 
pretty nearly every day, I suppose? 

Carve. Personally, I am quite satisfied with a 
plain, but perfect table. 

Janet. You needn't tell me what you are sat- 
isfied with. You're satisfied with the very best 
cut at ^/e a pound. 

Carve. I can place eighty pounds per annum 



ACT III ^ 

at your absolute disposal. That alone will pay 
for over a thousand best cuts. 

Janet. Yes, and what about your clothes, and 
my clothes, and the rates and taxes, and busfares, 
and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor, and 
errand boys' Christmas boxes, and gas and coal, 
and repairs ? — Repairs ! A hundred and eighty 
is more like what we want. 

Carve. And yet you have several times taken 
your Bible oath that my half share of it all came 
to less than forty pounds. 

Janet. Well — er — I was thinking of food 
[She begins to collect the breakfast things. ~[ 

Carve. Jane, you have been a deceitiful thing. 
But never mind. I will draw a veil over this sin- 
ful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to 
pieces and that you never get another cent out of 
Cohoons. Well, as you need a hundred and 
eighty a year I will give you a hundred and eighty 
a year. 

Janet. And where shall you get the extra hun- 
dred .? 

Carve. I shall earn it. 

Janet. No you don't ! I won't have you tak- 
ing any more situations ! 

Carve. I shall earn it here. 

Janet. How.? 

Carve. Painting. 

Janet [stopping her work and coming towards 



94 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

himy half caressing and half chiding^. I don't 
mind this painting business. Don't think I ob- 
ject to it in the least. There's a strong smell 
with it now and then, but it does keep you quiet 
in the attic while I'm cleaning the house, and that's 
something. And then going out making sketches 
you get exercise and fresh air. Being with Ham 
Carve so long, I expect you picked up the habit 
as it were, and I'm sure / don't want you to drop 
it. I love to see you enjoying yourself. But you 
don't suppose people'll bu7/ these things \_point- 
ing vaguely to picture on chcCir^, do you.^ No! 
There's far too many amateur artists about for 
that. 

Carve. If I wanted, I could take a cab and sell 
that in Bond Street inside sixty minutes, at my 
own price. Only I don't want. 

Janet. Now just listen to me. You remember 
that picture you did at Putney Bridge, with the 
saloon entrance of the Roebuck public house show- 
ing in the corner? It was one of the first you 
did here. 

Carve. Yes. I was looking for it the other 
day and I couldn't find it. 

Janet. I'm not surprised. Because it's sold. 

Carve. Sold? [^Excited.^ What in the name 
of * 

Janet [soothing him~\. Now — now! Do you 
remember you said Ham Carve would have got 
£1,000 for a thing just like that. 



ACT III 95 

r 

Carve. So he would! It was absolutely char- 
acteristic. 

Janet. Well I said to myself, " He seems 
mighty sure of himself — supposing it's me that's 
wrong? " So one day I quietly took that pic- 
ture round to Bostock's, the second-hand furniture 
man — you know — he was a friend of father's 
— and I asked him what he'd give me for it. He 
wouldn't take it any price. Not at any price ! 
Then I asked him if he'd keep it in his shop and 
sell it for me on commission. Well, it stuck in 
Bostock's shop — in his window and out of his 
window — for twelve months and more, and then 
one day the landlord of the Roebuck saw it, and 
he bought it for six shillings because his public 
house was in it. He was half-drunk. Mr. Bos- 
tock charged me eighteen pence commission, and 
I bought you two neckties with the four and six, 
and I said nothing because I didn't want your 
feelings to be hurt. And that reminds me, last 
week but one they took the landlord of the Roe- 
buck off to the lunatic asylum. ... So you 



see 



Cane ^serious, preoccupied^. And where's the 
picture now.** 

Janet. I shouldn't be surprised if it's in the 
private bar of the Roebuck. 

Carve. I must get hold of it. 

Janet. Albert, you aren't vexed, are you? 

Carve [forcing himself to adopt a light tonel. 



96 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

How could I be vexed with two neckties to the 
good ? But don't do it again, Jane. I shall go 
round to the Roebuck this morning and have a 
drink. If that picture ever found its way to a 
Bond Street expert's, the consequences might be 
awkward — devilish awkward ! Because it's dated, 
you see. 

Janet. No, I don't see. I shouldn't have said 
a word about it — only I wanted to save you from 
being disappointed later on. 

Carve [in a new casual tone^. Just get me my 
cash-box, will you? [Janet at once produces the 
cash-box from a drawer.^ 

Janet. And what now? I'm not broke yet, 
you great silly. [Laughs, hut is rather intimi- 
dated by Carve' s air.'] 

Carve [having unlocked box and taken a hag 
from it~\. You see that? [He showers gold out 
of it.] Well, count it. 

Janet. Gracious ! Ten . . . fifteeen . . . 
eighteen — twenty; two — four — twenty-six 
pounds. These your savings? 

Carve. That's what I've earned with painting, 
just at odd times. 

Janet. Really? [He nods.] You could knock 
me down with a feather ! 

Carve. I'll tell you. You know the frame- 
makers next to Salmon & Gluchstein's. I buy my 
colours and canvases and things there. They cost 
money. I owed the chap £2 once, and one morn- 



ACT III 97 

ing in the shop when I was opening mj box to 
put some new tubes in, he saw one of my pictures, 
all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it 
for what I owed him. I wouldn't let him have it. 
But I was rather hard up, so I said I'd do him 
another instead, and I did him one in a different 
style, and not half as good, and of course he liked 
it even better. Since then I've done him quite a 
few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's 
a margin, and tubes and frames, etc., come to a 
dickens of a lot in a year. 

Janet \^stagered~\. And what ever does he do 
with them? 

Carve. With the pictures? Don't know. I've 
never seen one in his window. I haven't been sell- 
ing him any lately. 

Janet. Why? 

Carve. Oh! I didn't feel like it. And the 
things were getting too good. But of course I 
can start again any time. 

Janet [still staggered]. Two pounds a piece? 
[Carve nods.] Would he give you two pounds for 
that? [Pointing to portrait.] 

Carve. You bet he would. 

Janet. Why ! Two pounds would keep us for 
the best part of a week. How long does it take 
you to do one? [Noise of motor car outside.] 

Carve. Oh three or four hours. I work pretty 
quickly. 

Janet. Well, it's like a fairy-tale! Two 



98 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

pounds ! I don't know whether I'm standing on 
my head or my heels ! [Violent ring at front door 
bell] 

Carve. There's one of your tradesmen. 

Janet. It isn't. They know better than come 
to my front-door. They know I won't have it. 
[Throws off apron and exit. Carve examines the 
portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.] 

Carve [to himself]. That 'ud make 'em sit up 
in Bond Street! [Laughs grimly. Voices off. 
Re-enter Janet, followed hy Ebag carrying a pic- 
ture.] 

Janet. Well, it never rains but it pours. 
Here's a gentleman in a motor-car wants to know 
if you've got any pictures for sale. [She calmly 
conceals her apron.] 

Ebag [with diplomatic caution and much defer- 
ence] . Good morning. 

Carve [whose entire demeanour has suddenly 
changed; with hostility]. Good morning. 

Ebag. I've been buying some very delightful 
little things of ^^curs from a man that calls him- 
self a " picture-dealer and frame-maker " [iron- 
ically] in the High Street here. I persuaded him 
— not without difficulty — to give me your ad- 
dress. And I've ventured to call, just to see if by 
chance you have anything for sale. 

Carve. By chance I haven't. 

Ebag. Nothing at all? 

Carve, Not a square inch. 



ACT III 99 

Ebag [catching sight of Janet's portrcut~\. 
Pardon me. May I look? 

Janet. Oh do ! 

Ebag. A brilliant likeness ! 

Janet. Who of? 

Ebag. Why, madam — yourself ! The atti- 
tude is extraordinarily expressive. And if I may 
say so [glancing at Carvel the placing of, the 
high lights — those white sleevelets — what d'you 
call them? 

Janet. Why ! Those are my cooking sleeves ! 

Ebag [quietlijl. Yes — well — it's genuis — 
mere genius. 

Janet [looking at picture afresh^. It is rather 
pretty when you come to look at it. 

Ebag. It is a masterpiece, madam. [To 
Carve.~\ Then I may not make an offer for it? 

Carve. No. 

Janet. Excuse me, Albert. Why shouldn't the 
gentleman make an offer for it? 

Ebag [quickly seizing an opportunityj. If you 
cared to consider, say, five hundred pounds 

Janet. Five hundred p 

Ebag. I came down quite prepared to spend — 
and to pay cash. [Fingers his pocketbook.^ 

Janet [sitting doum]. And if it isn't rude ques- 
tion — do you generally go about London w^ith 
five hundred pounds in your pocket, at it were? 

Ebag [raising his hands~\. In my business, 
madam 



100 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve. It's not for sale. 

Janet l^vivaciously~\. Oh yes it is! Somehodp 
in this house must think about the future. \Ca- 
jolingly.'\ If this gentleman can show me five 
hundred pounds, it's for sale. After all it's my 
picture. And you can do me another one. I'd 
much sooner be done without the cooking sleeves. 
. . . [^Entr eating.'] Albert! 

Carve [shy, nervous, and tongue-tied]. 
Well 

Janet [endearingly]. That's right! That's 
all right ! 

Ebag [putting down notes]. If you will kindly 
count these 

Janet [taking the notes]. Nay, I'm too dizzy 
to count them ! [As if giving up any attempt to 
realise the situation.] It fairly beats me, I never 
did understand this art business, and I never shall. 
. . . [To Ehag.] Why are you so interested 
in my portrait? You've never seen me before. 

Ebag. Madam, your portrait happens to be 
one of the very finest modern paintings I ever saw. 
[To Carve.] I have a picture here as to which 
I should like to ask your opinion. [Exposing pic- 
ture.] I bought it ten years ago. 

Carve [after seeing picture] . Janet, would you 
mind leaving us a minute. 

Janet [triumphant with her money]. Not a 
bit. [Exit L.] 

Ehag [bowing to Janet. Then to Carve.] 



ACT III 101 

It's signed " Ham Carve." Should you say it's a 
genuine Carve? 

Carve [more and more disturbed^. Yes. 

Ehag. Where was it painted? 

Carve. Why do you ask me? 

Ehag [quietly dramatk^ . iBecause you painted 
it. [Pause. He approaches Carve. li Mas- 
ter 

Carve. What's that? 

Ehag. Master! [Pause.'] 

Carve [impulsively~\. Look here! I never 
could stick being called " master." It's worse even 
than " maifr^." Have a cigarette? How did you 
find out who I was? 

Ehag [pointing to Janefs portrait]. Isn't 
that proof enough? 

Carve. Yes, but you knew before you saw that. 

Ehag [after lighting cigarette]. I did. I 
knew from the very first picture I bought from 
our friend the " picture dealer and frame-maker," 
in the early part of last year. 

Carve. But I'd completely altered my style ! I 
altered it on purpose. 

Ehag [shaking his head]. My dear sir; there 
was once a well-known man w^ho stood six feet 
ten inches high. He shaved off his beard and dyed 
his hair, and invented a very ingenious costume, 
and went to a Fancy Dress Ball as Tom Thumb. 
Strange to say, his disguise was penetrated im- 
mediately. 



102 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve. Who are you? 

Ehag. My name is Ebag — New Bond Street. 

Carve. What ! You're my old dealer ! 

Ehag. And I'm delighted at last to make your 
acquaintance, sir. It wasn't until I'd bought sev- 
eral of those small canvases from the Putney man 
that I began to enquire closely into their origin. 
As a general rule it's a mistake for a dealer to 
)be too curious. But my curiosity got the better 
of me. And when I found that the pictures were 
being produced week by week, fresh, then I knew I 
was on the edge of some mystery. 

Carve [awkwardly^. The fact is — perhaps I 
ought to explain. 

Ehag. Pardon me. I ask nothing. It isn't 
my affair. I felt certain, solely from the evidence 
of what I was buying, that the great painter who 
was supposed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, 
and whose somewhat premature funeral I attended, 
must be alive and painting vigorously. I wanted 
the assurance from your lips. I have it. The 
rest does not concern me — at any rate, for the 
moment. 

Carve. I'll say this — You know a picture 
when you see it. 

Ehag [proudly~\ . I am an expert, nothing else. 

Carve. All right! Well, I'll only ask you to 
persevere in your discretion. As you say, it isn't 
your affair. Thank goodness I didn't put a date 
on any of those things. I won't sell any more. 



ACT III 103 

I'd take an oath never to paint again, only I know 
I should go and break it next week. I shall rely 
on this famous discretion of yours to say nothing 
— nothing whatever. 

Ehag. I'm afraid it's too late. 

Carve. How too late? 

Ehag. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to 
state publicly that you are Ham Carve and that 
there must have been — er — some misapprehen- 
sion, somewhere, over that funeral. 

Carve [aghast^. Publicly! Why? 

Ehag. It's like this : I've been selling those pic- 
tures to Texel, in New York. You remember, he's 
always been one of your principal collectors. He's 
getting old, and he's half-blind, but he still buys. 
Now I rely on my judgment, and I guaranteed 
those pictures to be genuine Carves. Well, some- 
body over there must have had suspicions. 

Carve. What do I care for suspicions? 

Ehag. Just so. . . But in one of those pictures 
there's most distinctly a taxi cab. It isn't a pri- 
vate motor car. It's a taxi. 

Carve. And if there is ? No law against paint- 
ing a taxi, I hope. 

Ehag [again quietly dramatic^. No. But at 
the date of your funeral there wasn't a single taxi 
on the streets of London. 

Carve. The devil ! 

Ehag. Exactly ! Texel is bringing an action 
against me for misrepresentation. I shall have 



io4j the great adventure 

to ask you to give evidence and say who you are. 

Carve \^angrilif~\. But I won't give evidence. 
You've brought this on yourself. How much did 
you sell those little pictures for? 

Ehag. Oh! An average of between four and 
five hundred. 

Carve. And what did you pay for them? I 
ask you what did you pay for them? 

Ehag [smoothly^. Damned — possibly. Jew 
fact is — I did rather well out of them. 

Carve. Damned Jew! 

Ehag [smoothly . Damned — possibly. Jew 
— most decidedly. But in this particular instance 
I behaved just like a Christian. I paid a little 
less than I was asked, and I sold for the highest 
I could get. I am perfectly innocent, and my 
reputation is at stake. 

Carve. I don't care. 

Ehag. But I do. It's the reputation of the 
greatest expert in Europe. And I shall have to 
insist on you going into the witness-box. 

Carve [horrified^. Me in a witness-box! Me 
cross-examined ! No ! That's always been my 
nightmare ! 

Ehag. Nevertheless 

Carve. Please go ! \_Commandingly.~\ Please 
go ! [Ehag, intimidated hy Carve' s demeanour, 
spicks up his pictures to depart.^ 

Ehag [at door~\. You wife will perhaps be 
good enough to post me a receipt for that trifle. 



ACT III 105 

[Very respectfully.'] Good morning. [Exit r. 
Carve goes to door l. and opens it. Janet is 
standing behind it. Enter Janet.] 

Carve. You've been listening? 

Janet [counting her banknotes]. Well, natu- 
rally. [Putting notes in her purse.] 

Carve. Here's a perfect hades of a mess ! 

Janet. And it all comes of this painting! 
Art, as it's called ! [She finds her apron and puts 
it on.] 

Carve [with an air of discovery] . Your faculty 
for keeping calm really is most singular ! 
. .Janet. Somebody has to keep calm. [Voice 
off: ''Butcher!''] Oh! There's the butcher's 
boy. You'd like some nice cutlets for your lunch, 
wouldnt you? [Noise of motor car departing.] 

Carve. Anybody would say you didn't care a 
cent whether I'm Ham Carve or whether I'm some- 
body else. 

Janet. What does it matter to me who you are, 
so long as you're you? Men are so unpractical. 
You can be the Shah of Persia if you like — I 
don't mind. 

Carve. But aren't you convinced now 

[Voice off: " Butcher.''] 

Janet [with an enigmatic smile at Carve~\. 
Coming! Coming! [Exit.] 
[Curtain falls to indicate the passage of several 
months.] 



106 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Scene II. 

Time. — Before daylight on a morning in Febru- 
ary. Fire burning in grate. Also a speck 
of gas. Otherwise it is dark. Carve is re- 
posing in an easy chair. Enter Janet with 
a candle. 

Janet [^stiffly^. So you\e not been to sleep 
either ? 

Carve [stiffiy~\. Oh yes! Had an excellent 
night in this chair. 

Janet [going to fire^ . Now you're only boast- 
ing. If you've had such an excellent night [^imi- 
tating /iim], who's kept such an excellent fire? 

Carve [lamely^. Well of course I looked after 
it now and then. I didn't want to perish in my 
solitude. 

Janet. Then why didn't you come to bed, great 
baby. 

Carve [sitting up with solemnity~\. Janet, we 
are a pair of great babies, to have quarrelled like 
that, especially at bed time ! 

Janet [simply^. Quarrel.? 

Carve. Well, didn't we? 

Janet. I didn't. I agreed with everything you 
said. 

Carve. What did you agree with? I should 
like to know. 

Janet. You said I didn't really believe after all 



ACT III 107 

that you are Ham Carve, and I assured you in the 
most soothing manner that I did believe you are 
Ham Carve. 

Carve. And do you call that agreeing with me? 
I know perfectly well from your tone that in spite 
of all my explanations you don't believe I'm Ham 
Carve. You only say you do in order to sooth 
me. I hated being soothed. You're as convinced 
as ever that Ebag is a rascal and that I've got a 
bee in my bonnet. 

Janet. But what does it matter? 

Carve. Well, I like that ! 

Janet. All right then ! I don't believe you're 
Ham Carve. Will that satisfy you? 

Carve [examining her as she bends over him^. 
And even now I'm not sure whether you aren't try- 
ing to humour me again ! 

Janet [starting hack, with tears, wounded^. 
It's too bad 

Carve [jumping up and embracing her~\ . Hush, 
hush! There! [Cajolingly.^ Who's being an 
infant now? 

Janet. I don't pretend to understand this art 
— I would if I could 

Carve. I hope you never will. One of the 
chief charms of existence in your wigwam, my 
child, is that I never hear any confounded chatter 
about art. Now — are we pals ? 

Janet [smiling reconciliation^. Darling, do 
turn the gas up. 



108 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve [^obeying; struck by her attire^. Why 
— what are you dressed like that for? 

Janet. I was thinking of going away. [^Exit 
L. She re-enters again immediately with kettle 
and puts it on flre.~\ 

Carve. Going away? 

Janet. I shan't trouble to light the kitchen 
range. You'd like a cup, wouldn't you? 

Carve. But where are you going? 

Janet. Well, where shall we go? 

Carve. Oh! Then I'm included? 

Janet [coldly~\ . Oh ! Just as you like. 

Carve [upset by her tone^. Jane! And you 
had the dashed impudence to say just now that you 
hadn't quarrelled ! 

Janet [smiling~\. Now do listen, darling. 
Let's go away. We can't stop here. This Ebag 
case is getting more and more on your nerves, 
and on mine too. I'm sure that's what's the mat- 
ter with us. What it'll be next week when the 
trial comes on I don't know, upon my soul I don't. 
It's all very well for you to refuse to see callers, 
and never go out. But I can tell you one thing 
— we shall have those newspaper people on the 
roof in a day or two, and looking down the chim- 
ney to see how I lay the fire. Lawyers are noth- 
ing to them. Do you know — no you don't, be- 
cause I didn't want you to be upset — last night's 
milk was brought by a journalist — with a camera. 



ACT III 109 

They're beginning to bribe the tradesmen. I 
tremble to think what will be in this morning's 
papers. 

Carve [trying to make light of if]. Oh! 
Nothing will upset me now. But you might let 
me know at once if the editor of the " Spectator " 
calls round with the bread. 

Janet. And I'll tell you another thing. That 
Mr. Horning — you know, the breathless man on 
the " Evening Courier " that came to the Grand 
Babylon — he's taken lodgings opposite — ar- 
rived last night. 

Carve. Oh for a machine gun — one simple lit- 
tle machine gun! [Exit Janet l. and immediate 
return with tray containing bread, etc., and a 
toasting fork.^ 

Janet. So I thought if we just — van- 
ished 

Carve. But I object to vanishing. Why 
should we be driven off by a pack of lawyers and 
journalists? We've done nothing wrong. 

Janet. The question is, have we done anything 
right ? 

Carve. Perhaps I ought to have killed a jour- 
nalist or two at the start. No doubt it was mis- 
taken kindness on my part not to do so. But 
that's no reason why I should be hounded out of 
this excellent wigwam. And I'm hanged if I will 
be! 



110 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet. Now please, Albert, don't try to be 
funny like that. It's a sign you're getting des- 
perate. Will you come or won't you? 

Carve. Besides it's too late, I've had the sub- 
poena. If I hooked it, everybody would say I was 
an adventurer. 

Janet. We could come back for the trial. 

Carve. We should be followed. 

Janet. Not if we start now. 

Carve. Now ? 

Janet. Yes, now. The back way. Before it 
gets light. 

Carve. Creep away in the dark ! No. I'll go 
through with the thing! 

Janet. Well, here's my bunch of keys. I'll 
just explain to you where everything is. I dare 
say Mrs. Simpson will come in and clean up. She's 
not bad, as charwomen go. 

Carve. Jane ! 

Janet. Well? 

Carve. You're taking an unfair advantage of 
me. 

Janet [putting tea leaves in teapot^. What if 
I am? 

Carve. You're only a woman after all ! 
And I'd thought so highly of you ! 

Janet [sweetly^. Then you'll come? Better 
brush yourself up first. 

Carve. What time is it? 

Janet [looking at clock^. Seven o'clock. 



ACT III 111 

Carve. Where do you mean to drag me to? 

Janet. Well what about this continent of yours 
that I've heard so much of? 

Carve. There's a train at Victoria at 8:30. 

Janet. Very well then, we'll have another 
breakfast at Victoria. 

Carve. And the cab? 

Janet. There isn't going to be any cab, nor 
luggage — rousing the whole street ! [Carve 
goes to window.^ For goodness' sake don't draw 
those curtains — with the gas flaring up ! 

Carve. Why not? 

Janet [conspiratorial^. Supposing there's some 
journalists on the w^atch outside ! 

Carve. I wanted to look at the weather. 

Janet. Well, go to the front door — and mind 
you open it quietly ! [Exit Carve r. Janet 
pours water on tea. Exit l. Re-enter Carve r. 
quicM^j.^^ 

Carve. I say, here's a curate pushed himself in 
at the front door. [Re-enter Janet, l.] 

Janet. No, he's come in at the back. 

Carve. But I tell you he's here! [Enter James 
Shawn, l. Then enter John Shawn, r. Pause.~\ 

James Shawn. Now let me entreat everybody 
to remain perfectly calm. 

Janet. Oh ! Don't worry about that. Noth- 
ing start\es us now. A few curates more or 
less 

Carve [sinking into a chair^. I suppose this 



112 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

is the very newest journalism. Would you mind 
me asking a question? 

James Shawn. What is it? [^Janet makes the 
tea.^ 

Carve. Why did you wait till the door was 
opened? Seems a pity to stand on Iceremony. 
Why not have broken a window or so and climbed 
right in? 

James Shawn. John, is mother there? 

John Shawn \^at door, r.]. Mother, how often 
shall I have to ask you to keep close to me? 
\_Enter Mrs. Shawn, r.] 

Mrs. Shawn. I'm all of a tremble. 

John Shawn [firmly^. Come now, you mustn't 
give way. This is he. [Pointing to Carve.'] 
Do you recognise him as our father? [Janet, 
who is cutting a slice of bread, stops and looks 
from one to the other. ~\ 

Mrs. Shawn [to Carve]. Albert, don't you 
know me? To think that next Tuesday it'll be 
twenty-six years since you walked out o' the house 
casual like and — and [Stops from emo- 
tion. ] 

Carve. Go on ! Go on ! . . . To think 
that I was once shy ! 

Janet [to Mrs. Shawn']. Here, you'd better 
come and sit a bit nearer the fire. [Very kindly.] 
Come along now ! 

Mrs. Shawn [obeying]. Thank you, m'm. 

Janet [to John]. And which of you boys was 



ACT III 113 

it that had the idea of keeping a middle-aged 
woman perishing on a doorstep before daylight in 
February. 

John Shawn. How else could we 

James Shawn [interrupting hiTu], Excuse me, 
John. 

John Shawn [subsiding^. I beg your pardon, 
James. 

James Shawn [to Janet]. All questions should 
be addressed to me. My brother John is here 
solely to take charge of our mother. We have 
done our best, by careful forethought, to ensure 
that this painful interview shall be as brief and as 
dignified as possible. 

Janet. And you couldn't think of anything 
cleverer than to give your poor mother her death 
of cold, for a start ! 

James Shawn. How else could we have ar- 
ranged it? I myself rang at your door for a quar- 
ter of an hour yesterday afternoon. 

Janet. We never heard you. 

James Shawm, Strange! 

Janet. No it isn't. We took the bell off three 
days ago. 

James Shawn. I was told that it was impos- 
sible to effect an entrance in the ordinary way. 
Hence we had to use craft. I argued that food 
must come into the house and that it probably 
came in early. 

Janet. Well, it's a good thing for you I hap- 



114 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

pened to hear the cat mewing, or you might have 
had another couple of hours in my back yard. 
You're the eldest, I suppose. 

James Shawn, We are twins. 

Janet. Really ! 

Carve. As you say — really ! 

James Shawn. I am the elder, but the differ- 
ence between us is not considerable. 

John Shawn. Now, mother, please don't cry ! 

Janet [having poured out a cup of tea, holds it 
before Mrs. Shawn^. Sugar? [Mrs. Shawn sig- 
nifies an affirmative. Janet drops sugar into cup, 
which Mrs. Shawn takes.'] You'll drink it easier 
if you lift your veil. 

James Shawn. Now, mother, you are sure you 
recognise this gentleman? 

Mrs. Shawn [not very positively]. Yes 
. yes. It's a rare long while. 

James Shawn. He is your husband and our 
father ? 

Mrs. Shawn [more positively]. Yes. And 
sorry I am to say it! [Janet eyes her carefully,] 

James Shawn. I think that suffices. [To Ja- 
net.] Madam, you are in a most unfortunate posi- 
tion. You supposed yourself to be a married 
woman, whereas you are nothing of the kind. I 
needn't say that as the victim of a heartless big- 
amist you have our deepest 

Janet [handing him a slice of bread on toasting 
fork]. Just toast this for your mother, will you, 



ACT III 115 

and mind the bars. I'll get another cup or two 
[goes to sideboard and gets crockery'\ . 

Carve. And so these are my two sons ! They 
show little emotion in beholding the author of their 
being for the first time. As for me, I hardly recog- 
nise them. 

Mrs. Shawn. And is it likely, seeing they were 
born six months after you deserted me, Albert? 

Carve. I see. If it isn't indiscreet, am I a 
grandfather? 

James Shawn [toasting~\. No, sir. 

Carve. I only wanted to know the worst. Silly 
joke about the fertility of curates — you've met 
with it, no doubt! 

James Shawn. Your tone is simply lamentable, 
sir. 

Janet [to James]. Mind! You can do the 
other side. Now. Take care. The fire's very 
hot. [In the same mild tone to Mrs. Shawn. 
Twenty-six years, you say? 

Mrs.. Shawn. Yes. Albert was twenty-two 
then, weren't you, Albert? 

Carve. Oh, undoubtedly! 

Janet. And how did you come to find us out at 
last? 

Mrs. Shawn. It was through an advertisement 
put in the paper by that Mr. Texel — him that's 
in this law case — offering a reward for informa- 
tion about a Mr. Albert Shawn, who'd been valet 
to that artist man that died 



116 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet. Oh ! So Mr. Texel has been advertis- 
ing, has he? [^Gives a cup of tea to John Slia'wn.~\ 

Mrs. Shawn. Yes, for anybody that knew Al- 
bert Shawn when he was young. " Albert Shawn," 
I says, " that's my husband's name ! " I'd been 
told he'd gone off in service with a painter or 
something of that kind. I married him as a valet. 

Janet [pouring out tea']. A valet.? 

Mrs. Shawn. A valet, ma'am! . . . And 
the struggle I've had to bring up my children 
[whimpering] ! 

James Shawn. Now, mother 

Janet [stopping James]. That will do now! 
Give it me [taking toast and fork] ! Here's some 
tea. Now don't pretend you've never seen a cup 
of tea before, you a curate! [James accepts tea.] 

Mrs. Shawn. Yes, they would go into the 
Church, both of them. I don't know how we've 
managed it, but managed it we have, surplices and 
all. And very happy we were, I'm sure. And 
now there's this dreadful scandal. Oh! Albert! 
you might at least have changed your name ! I — 
I [Partially breaks down.] 

John Shawn. Mother, I beg [Mrs. Shawn 
breaks down entirely]. Mother, I absolutely in- 
sist. You know you promised not to speak at all 
except in answer to questions. 

James Shawn. 1 think, mother, you really 
might try 



ACT ni 117 

John Shawn. Leave her to me. Now mother! 
[Loud double knock off.] 

Janet [to John Shawn~\. There's the post! 
Just go and bring me the letters in, will you? 
[John hesitates.] You'll find them scattered 
about the floor in the hall. Don't miss any. [Exit 
John Shawn, r. Mrs. Shawn recovers. 

James Shawn. And what do you propose to do, 
madam ? 

Janet [who has been soothing Mrs. Shawn]. 
Me? What about? 

James Shawn. About this — this bigamy. 

Janet. Oh! Nothing. What are you think- 
ing of doing? [Re-enter John Shawn with post, 
which Carte takes and begins to read.] 

James Shawn. Well, I suppose you're aware 
that bigamy is a criminal offence. 

Janet. There's a police-station in the Upper 
Richmond Road. Better call there. It'll be so 
nice for you two, when you're flourishing about in 
the pulpit, to think of your father in prison — 
won't it, now? 

James Shawn. We, of course, should not prose- 
cute. If you are prepared to go on living with 
this gentleman as though nothing had happened. 

Janet. Oh, / don't mind ! 

James Shawn. Well, I doubt if we should in- 
terfere. But Mr. Texel's lawyers are already in 
communication with the police. 

Janet [stifflT/], I see, [An awJcward pause. 



118 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

during which everybody except Carve, who is read- 
ing his post, looks at everybody else.~\ Well then, 
I think that's about all, isn't it? [A shorter 
pause. ^ Good morning. \^Bows to the curates. 
Shakes hands with Mrs. Shawn. To Mrs. Shawn. 1 
Now do take care of yourself. 

Mrs. Shawn [weakly ~\ . Thank you ! 

John Shawn. Good morning. Mother, take 
my arm, please. 

James Shawn. Good morning. 

Janet. Albert, they're going. 

Carve [looking up absently, and only half-rising, 
perfunctorily and quickly^ . Good morning ! Good 
morning! [Sits down again.~\ 

Janet [to James Shawn, who is hovering near 
door L, uncertain of his way out^. This way, this 
time. [Exeunt the Shawns, followed by Janet. 
Carve rises and draws curtains of window apart. 
Re-enter Janet.'\ 

Janet [cheerfully^. Oh! It's quite light. 
[Turns out gas.'\ 

Carve [gazing at her~\. Incomparable woman! 

Janet. So it is true, after all ! 

Carve. What .? 

Janet. All that rigmarole that you told me 
when you were down with influenza at the hotel — 
about pretending to be your own valet, and so on 
and so on and so on. 

Carve, So you're beginning to come round at 
last? 



ACT III 119 

1 

Janet. Well, I think they were quite honest 
people — those three. There's no doubt the poor 
creature once had a husband who did run off. And 
it seems fairly clear his name was Albert Shawn, 
and he went away as valet to an artist. But then, 
on the other hand, if there is one thing certain in 
this world it is that you were never married before 
you married me. That I will swear to. 

Carve. And yet she identified me. She was 
positive. 

Janet. Positive? That's just what she 
wasn't ! And didn't you notice the queer way she 
looked at you as they went out.? As much as to 
say, " I wonder now whether it is him — after 
all ! " 

Carve. Then you really think she could be mis- 
taken on such a point? 

Janet. After twenty-six years ! Besides, all 
men of forty-seven look more or less alike. 
And so I'm the wife of Ham Carve, that's sup- 
posed to be buried in Westminster Abbey, and roy- 
alty went to his funeral ! We'll have some tea 
ourselves. I say, why did you do it? [Pours out 
tea.] 

Carve [casually]. I don't know. It was to 
save worry to begin with, and then it went on by 
itself, and somehow I couldn't stop it. , . . 
I don't know ! . , . 

Janet [endearingly]. Well, I've always told 
you frankly you've got a bee in your bonnet [drink- 



120 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

ing tea, and turning over the postl. More letters 
from these newspaper people. What's this lovely 
crest on this envelope? 

Carve. It's from Lord Leonard Alcar. He 
says if we'll go up and see him to-morrow after- 
noon he'll be very much obliged indeed, and he may 
be able to be of assistance to us. 

Janet [deeply impressed^. Lord Leonard 

Al Where's the letter? [Searches for it 

hurriedly. As she reads it.^ Well, I never! 
[Reading.] " And Mrs. Shawn." I've got noth- 
ing to go in. 

Carve. Oh! I shan't go. 

Janet. Why not? 

Carve. Well, what about this trip to the con- 
tinent ? 

Janet. Continent fiddlesticks ! It's too late 
now. Do you want the police running after you? 
No! For the present the only thing we can do 
it to sit tight here in London, and wait and see if 
the police do come. Besides, I've never been asked 
to go and see a lord before. 

Carve. Now listen, Jane ! What earthly good 
can it do? I shan't go. 

Janet. 1 shall. So there! Six dukes in the 
family ! I wouldn't miss it for anything. 

[Curtain.] 



NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS IN ACT IV 

Lord Leonard Alcar. Aged 65. A nobleman of 
diplomatic and political experience. His most 
marked characteristic is invincible urbanity. He 
is innocently proud of his voice and his powers of 
persuasion. 

Texel. Aged 60. American. Excessively myopicj 
but obstinately jolly. A large, hearty man. 



ACT IV 

I 
Scene. — Lord Leonard Alcar's study. Grosvenor 

Gardens, Door back centre. Door i., Ja- 

nefs portrait is conspicuous on a wall. 

Scene I. 

Time. — The next afternoon. Lord Leonard Al- 
car and Mr. Texel are coming into the room 
from door at back. 

Lord Alcar [directing TexeVs hand to chair'\. 
Permit me, Mr. Texel. 

Texel. Thanks, I'm on to it [sitting down^. 
My eyesight's going steadily worse, but there are 
still a few things that I can out make pretty 
clearly. Lord Leonard. Motor-omnibuses, cathe- 
drals, English easy-chairs. 

Lord Alcar. Well, I'm charmed to find you in 
such good spirits, and really I feel very grateful 
to you for accepting my invitation. 

Texel. Delighted to make your acquaintance, 
sir. Two old collectors, like us — rivals at Chris- 
tie's ! I wonder how many times I've cabled over 
instructions to my agent to smash you at any cost ! 
Delighted to meet you. Lord Leonard. 

Lord Alcar \bows^. You still go on collect- 
ing? 



ACT IV 123 

Texel. Well, yes. I've been amusing myself 
with pictures for pretty nigh forty years. Why 
should I deprive myself of this pleasure merely be- 
cause my eyesight's gone? 

Lord Alcar. Why, indeed ! You have the true 
collecting spirit. We ought to have met earlier, 
Mr. Texel. Now I've got you here, I must tell 
you I've ventured to invite one or two — er — 
kindred spirits to meet you. [Enter servant. ~\ 

Servant. Mr. Ebag. [Enter Ebag. Exit 
servant. '\ 

Lord Alcar. How d'you do, Ebag.? 

Ebag. My lord. 

Loi'd Alcar. Let me introduce you to Mr. 
Texel. Mr. Texel, this is Mr. Ebag. 

Texel [surprised; aside to Lord Leonard Alcar'\. 
This one of your kindred spirits ? 

Ebag [surprised]. Mr. Texel! 

Texel [also surprised, but holding out his hand 
towards Ebag, who takes it~\. Well, Mr. Ebag, 
I've made a special journey to Europe to get a 
verdict from an English court that you've done me 
up for about thirty thousand dollars, and if I get 
it I'll do my level best afterwards to see you safe 
into prison ; but in the meantime I'm very glad to 
meet you. I feel sure you're one of the right sort, 
whatever you are. 

Ebag. You flatter me, Mr. Texel. The glad- 
ness is mutual. [Enter servant.] 

Servant. Mr. Cyrus Carve. Mr. and Mrs. X. 



124< THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

l^Enter Janet. She hesitates in doorway. . . Lord 
Leonard Alcar goes to meet her.^ 

Janet. You, Lord Alcar? 

Lord Alcar. I am Lord Leonard Alcar. 

Janet. My mistake. [They shake hands. ~\ 
But why does this young man call me Mrs. X. ? I 
told him Carve plain enough. 

Lord Alcar. Did he? A slip, a slip! You've 
brought your husband? 

Janet. Yes, but not so easily as all that. I'm 
afraid he's quarrelling out there with Mr. Cyrus 
Carve. They got across one another on the 
stairs. 

Lord Alcar. Tut-tut. Excuse me one moment. 
\_Exit hurriedly. Exit servant.^ 

Janet. Mr. Ebag! So you're here, too! 
Why, it's a family party. 

Ebag [astounded}. How do you do, Mrs. 
Shawn? — I beg pardon, Mrs. Carve. 

Janet. It seems I'm Mrs. X. now — didn't j^^ou 
hear ? 

Ebag. I expect the servant had received in- 
structions. His lordship has a great reputation 
for wit, you know. 

Janet \_drily~\. Has he? \_In another tone.~\ 
He's very nice, though. 

Ebag. Very. 

Janet, I suppose you've often met him? 

Ebag. Not here. 



ACT IV 125 

Janet. And what's this room supposed to be 
[looking round^ ? 

Ebag. Oh ! The study, probably. 

Janet. Really! Not what you'd call 
" homely," is it? Rather like being on the stage. 
[Enter Lord Leonard Alcar leading Carve on his 
right and Cyrus on his left. Servant closes door 
■from without.^ 

Lord Alcar. Now, we're all safely here, and I 
fancy there will be enough easy-chairs to go round. 
Mr. Texel, you already know Mr. Cyrus Carve, 
and you will be pleased to meet the talented artist 
who painted the pictures which you have been buy- 
ing from Mr. Ebag. He has most kindly con- 
sented to be called Mr. X, for the moment. This 
is Mrs. X. — Mr. Texel. [They how. Cyrus 
shakes hands with Texel.'\ 

Ebag [to Cyrus~\. How d'you do? 

Cyrus. How d'you do? 

Carve. How d'you do? 

Lord Alcar [observing that these three are al- 
ready acquainted']. Good! Excellent! Now Mrs. 
— er — X., will you have this chair near the fire? 
[Fixes chair for her.] 

Texel [indicating Janet aside to Ebag] . Good 
looking? 

Ebag [aside to Texel], Very agreeable little 
thing ! 

Texel. Excellent ! Excellent I 

Lord Alcar [interrupting a gesture from Carve]. 



126 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

You have all done me a signal favour by coming 
here. In thanking you, I wonder if I may ask an- 
other favour. May I.^^ 

Texel. Certainly ! Among kindred spirits ! 

Ehag. Assuredly, my lord. 

Lord Alcar. I would merely request you to 
control so far as possible any expression of your 
astonishment at meeting one another here. That 
is to say, any violent expression. 

Carve gaily and carelessly^ . Oh, very well ! 
Very well! [Lord Leonard Alcar waves the rest 
of the company into chairs, tactfully separating 
Cyrus and Carve as much as possible; he remains 
standing himself.^ 

Janet. I suppose what you really want is to 
stop this funny trial from coming on. 

Lord Alcar [slightly taken aback~\. Mrs. X, I 
congratulate myself on your presence here. Yes, 
my ambition is to be peacemaker. Of course, a 
peacemaker always runs the risk of a broken head, 
but I shall entrust my head to your good nature. 
As a proof that I really mean business, I need 
only point out that I haven't invited a single law- 
yer. 

Ehag [after slight pause^. This is exceed- 
ingly good of your lordship 

Texel. For myself, I'm rather looking forward 
to next week. I've spared no expense to get up a 
first-class show. Half the papers in New York 
and Chicago are sending over special correspond- 



ACT IV 127 

dents. I've even secured your champion humorous 
judge, and altogether I reckon this trial will be 
about the greatest judicial proposition the British 
public's seen in years. Still, I'm always ready to 
oblige. And I'll shake hands right now, on 
terms — my terms. 

Lord Alcar. We are making progress. 

Texel. But what I don't understand is — 
where you come in, Lord Leonard. 

Lord Alcar. Where I come in? 

Texel. Well, I don't want to be personal, but 
is this Hague Conference merely your hobby, or 
are you standing in with somebody? 

Lord Alcar. I quite appreciate your delicacy. 
Let m€ assure you that, though it gives me the 
greatest pleasure to see you all, I have not se- 
lected you as the victim of a hobby. Nor have I 
anything whatever to gain by stopping the trial. 
The reverse. At the trial I should probably have 
a seat on the bench, next to a delightful actress, 
and I should enjoy the case very much indeed. I 
have no doubt that even now the learned judge is 
strenuously preparing his inimitable flashes of hu- 
mour, and that, like the rest of the world, I should 
allow myself to be convulsed by them. I like to 
think of four K.C.'s toiling hard for a miserable 
hundred guineas a day each. I like to think of 
the solicitors, good, honest fellows, striving their 
^est to keep the costs as low as possible. I even 
like to think of the jury, with their powerful intel- 



128 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

lects, who, when we are dead and gone, Mr. Texel, 
will tell their grandchildren proudly how they de- 
cided the famous case of Texel v. Ebag. Above 
all, I like to think of the witnesses, revelling in 
their cross-examination. Nobody will be more 
sorry than I to miss this grand spectacle of the 
greatest possible number of the greatest possible 
brains employed for the greatest possible length 
of time in settling a question that a barber's as- 
sistant could settle in five minutes. I am human. 
But I have been approached — I have been flat- 
tered by the suggestion that I might persuade you 
two gentlemen to abandon the trial, and I may whis- 
per to you that the abandonment of the trial would 
afford satisfaction in — er — influential quarters. 

Texel. Are we up against the British govern- 
ment ? 

Lord Alcar. I say merely — very influential 
quarters. But you are " up against " nothing 
and nobody. My role is simply to suggest — as 
persuasively as I can. 

Texel, I suppose they came to you as the prize 
picture collector of this nation. 

Lord Alcar. Well, partly, no doubt. 

Ebag. His lordship has held office. If I'm 
right, your lordship was Master of the Horse. 

Janet. Really, now! Which horse was that? 

Lord Alcar [^sJiaking his head~\. I never knew 
exactly. I remember that on my first and last 
visit to the royal §t^bles Her Majesty's Coach- 



ACT IV 129 

man told me that I was evidently " more of an in- 
doors man." However, he said he was quite used 
to them, and I needn't worry. So I didn't. 

Texel. But surely. Lord Leonard, that wasn't 
with the gang that's just now in charge of this 
island. 

Lord Alcor. It's all one gang, you know. Two 
names. One gang. 

Texel. Same as Washington, then ! 

Lord Alcar. Oh, exactly! 

Texel. Then you're talking to us on behalf of 
the British government. Well, go ahead ! 

Lord Alcar [protesting with a very courteous 
lair of extreme astonishment^. My dear Mr. 
Texel, how can I have been so clumsy as to convey 
such an idea ? On behalf of the government ? Not 
in the least — not in the least! On behalf of no- 
body whatever ! [Confidentially.'] I am merely in 
a position to inform you positively that an amicable 
settlement of the case would be viewed with satis- 
faction in influential quarters. 

Janet. Well, I can tell you it would be viewed 
with satisfaction in a certain street in Putney ; 
but influential quarters — what's it go to do witb 
them? 

Lord Alcar. I shall be quite frank with you. 
The dignity of Westminster Abbey is involved in 
this case, and nothing in all England is more sa- 
cred to us than Westminster Abbey. One has 
only to pronounce the words — " the Abbey " — 



130 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

to realise that. We know what a modern trial is ; 
we know what the modern press is ; and, un- 
happily, we know what the modern bench is. 
It is impossible to contemplate with equanim- 
ity the prospect of Westminster Abbey and its 
solemnities being given up to the tender mercy of 
the evening papers and a joking judge surrounded 
by millinery. Such an exhibition would be un- 
seemly. It would soil our national existence. In 
a word, it would have a bad effect. 

Carve [meditatively, blandl. How English! 
\_He gets up and walks unobtrusively about the 
room, examining the pictures. ~\ 

Lord Alcar. Undoubtedly. But this is Eng- 
land. It is perhaps a disadvantage that we are 
not in Russia, nor in Prussia. But we must make 
the best of our miserable country. [In a new tone, 
showing the orator skilled in changes of voice.~\ 
Can't we discuss our little affair in a friendly wa}'-, 
entirely without prejudice? We are together 
here, among gentlemen 

Janet. I'm afraid you're forgetting me. 

Lord Alcar [recovering himself^. Madam, I 
am convinced that none of us can be more gentle- 
manly than yourself. . . . Can we not find a 
way of settlement [with luxurious enjoyment of 
the idea~\ ? Imagine the fury of all those lawyers 
and journalists when they learn that we — er — if 
I may so express it — have done them in the eye ! 

Texel. If I wasn't going to come out on top, 



ACT IV ISl 

I could understand you worrying about your old 
Abbey. But I'm taking the part of your Abbey. 
When I win it wins, and I'm certain to win. 

Lord Alcar. I do not doubt 

Ebag l^with suave assurance~\ . But I do. 

Lord Alcar [^contmidng'\. I do not doubt your 
conviction, Mr. Texel. It merely proves that you 
have never seen a British jury exercising itself 
upon a question relating to the fine arts. If you 
had, you would not be certain, for you would know 
that twelve tradesmen so occupied are capable of 
accomplishing the most incredible marvels. Sup- 
posing you don't win Supposing Mr. Ebag 

wins 

Ebag. As I assuredly shall 



Lord Alcar. Then we should have the whole 
world saying : " Well, they haven't got a national 
funeral to a really great artist for about a cen- 
tury, and when at last they do try they only suc- 
ceed in burying a valet." 

Carve [looking round casually^. England all 



over 



Lord Alcar. The effect would be lamentable — 
utterly lamentable. You will realise that in influ- 
ential quarters 

Texel. But do you reckon this policy of hush- 
ing things up ever does any good? 

Lord Alcar. My dear sir, it is the corner- 
stone of England's greatness. It is the policy 
that has made her what she is. 



1S2 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Carve [looking round agam]. True! What 
she is! 

Lord Alcar [turning sharply to Carve, behind 
hinf\. Mr. X, your interest in my pictures flat- 
ters me immensely 

Carve [interrupting hiin] . I see you've bought 
my latest portrait of my wife. 

Lord Alcar. Yes. 

Janet [starting up^. Whafs that.? [She 
goes to inspect picture.^ 

Carve, I suppose it would be abusing your hos- 
pitality to enquire how much you paid our excellent 
dealer for it? 

Lord Alcar. Not in the least. But the fact 
is, we haven't yet settled the price. The exact 
price is to depend on the result of our gathering. 

Janet. Well, if anj^body had told me I should 
find my own portrait — cooking sleeves and 
all [Inarticulate, she returns to her chair. ^ 

Lord Alcar. And now that we have got so far, 
Mr. X, I should like to centralise the attention of 
this quite friendly gathering on yourself. 

Carve [approaching airily']. Really! [He 
sits.~\ 

Lord Alcar. There are several questions we 
.might discuss. For example, we might argue the 
artistic value of the pictures admittedly the work 
of Mr. X. That would probably occupy us for 
about ten years. Or, we might ask ourselves how 
it happened that that exceedingly astute dealer, 



ACT IV 133 

Mr. Ebag, came to sell as a genuine Ham Carve, 
without offering any explanation, a picture which 
on the face of it was painted some time after that 
great painter had received a national funeral in 
Westminster Abbey. 

Ebag. Sheer carelessness, my lord. 

Lord Alcar. Or we might ask ourselves why a 
valet should try to pass himself off as a world-re- 
nowned artist. Or, on the other hand, why a 
world-renowned artist should pass himself off as 
a valet. 

Carve. Sheer carelessness, my lord. Culpable 
negligence ! 

Lord Alcar. But these details of psychology 
are beside the main point. And the main point is 
[to Carvel : Are you Ham Carve or are you Al- 
bert Shawn? [To the others.~\ Surely, with a lit- 
tle good-will, and unembarrassed by the assistance 
of experts, lawyers, and wigs generally, we can 
settle that ! And once it is settled, the need for a 
trial ceases. [Carve assumes an elaborately un- 
interested air.l The main point does not seem to 
interest you, Mr. X. 

Carve [seeming to start^. I beg your pardon. 
No, not profoundly ! Why should it ? 

Lord Alcar. Yet you claim 

Carve. Excuse me. I claim nothing, except to 
be let alone. Certainly I do not ask to be ac- 
cepted as Ram Carve. I was leading a placid and 
agreeable existence, in a place called Putney, an 



184 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

ideal existence with a pearl among women, when 
my tranquillity was disturbed and my life trans- 
formed into a perfect nightmare by a quarrel be- 
tween a retail tradesman [^indicating Ebag'] and 
a wholesale ink dealer [indicating Teccel^ about 
one of my pictures. It does not concern me. My 
role is and will be passive. If I am forced into the 
witness box, I shall answer questions to the worst 
of my ability, and I shall do no more. I am not 
cross ; I am not sulking ; but I consider that I 
have a grievance. If I am here, it is solely be- 
cause my wife does what she likes with me. 

Texel. Bravo ! This is as good as the trial. 

Lord Alcar [good-humour edly~\. Will you an- 
swer questions here? 

Carve [good-humour edly~\. It depends. 

Lord Alcar. Do you assert that you are Ham. 
Carve ? 

Carve. I assert nothing. 

Lord Alcar. Are you Ham Carve? 

Carve. Yes — but I don't want to be. 

Lord Alcar. Might I enquire why you allowed 
your servant to be buried in your name? 

Carve. Well, he always did everything for me — 
a most useful man ! . . . But I didn't "allow " 
him to be buried in my name. On the contrary, I 
told various people that I was not dead — but, 
strange to say, nobody would believe me. My 
handsome, fascinating cousin here wouldn't even 
let me begin to tell him. Even my wife wouldn't 



ACT IV 135 

believe me. So I gave it up. [Texel does not con- 
ceal his enjoyment of the scene. '\ 

Cyrus [grimly'\. Which wife? [^Carve twid- 
dles his thumbs.^ 

Lord Alcar. But do you mean 

Texel. May I interrupt, Lord Leonard? I 
could listen for hours to this absolutely stupendous 
gentleman. A circus is nothing to it. But aren't 
we jumping the track? I've got two witnesses. 
Mr. Cyrus Carve will swear that your Mr. X is 
not his cousin. And the original Mrs. Albert 
Shawn will swear that he is her husband. That's 
my case. How is my esteemed opponent going to 
answer it? 

Ehag. In the first place, have you cross-exam- 
ined this very original Mrs. Albert Shawn? 

Texel. Come ! You don't mean to argue that 
a woman could mistake another man for her own 
husband — even after twenty years or so? 

Ehag. According to the divorce reports they're 
constantly doing it — after one year, to say noth- 
ing of twenty. 

Texel [appreciative^. Good! That's good! 
Well I may tell you right here that I had an in- 
terview with this gentleman's [indicating Carve^ 
ecclesiastical tw^ins only yesterday afternoon, and 
they assure me that their mother is positive on the 
point. 

Janet [meditatively^. Simpletons! 

Lord Alcar. I beg pardon. 



136 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Janet. I dare say they preach very nicely, but 
out of the pulpit they don't what I should call shine, 
poor boys ! Anybody could see she wasn't posi- 
tive. Why, it wasn't until the old lady dropped 
in to have a cup of tea with us that I felt sure my 
husband's name really was Carve. 

Lord Alcar. Then you hadn't credited his 
story before? 

Janet, Well, it wanted some crediting, didn't 
it.? 

Cyrus {with intention^. You only began to 
credit it after Mr. Ebag had called and paid you 
the sum of £500 in cash. 

Janet [after a slight pause, calmly^. Oh! So 
you know about that, do you? 

Carve [to Cyrus, genially^. Cousin, if you 
continue in that strain, I shall have to take you 
out on to the doormat and assault you. 

Ebag. I should like to say 

Cyrus [interrupting, grimly^. Lord Leonard, 
isn't it time that this ceased? 

Texel [heartily amused^. But why? I'm en- 
joying every minute of it. 

Lord Alcar. I should be sorry to interfere 
with Mr. Texel's amusement, but I think the mo- 
ment has now come for me to make a disclosure. 
When I was approached as to this affair I con- 
sulted Mr. Cyrus Carve first, he being the sole 
surviving relative of his cousin. That seemed to 
me to be the natural and proper course to adopt. 



ACT IV 1$7 

]\Ir. Cyrus Carve gave me a very important piece 
of information, and it is solely on the strength of 
that information that I have invited you all to 
come here this afternoon. \_He looks at Cyrus.^ 

Cyrus [clearing his throat; to Ebag and 
Carvel. Of course you'll argue that after thirty- 
five years' absence it's a wise man that can recog- 
nise his own cousin. I'm absolutely convinced in 
my own mind that you [scornfully, to Carve^ 
are not my cousin. But then you'll tell me that 
men have been hung before now on the strength) 
of sworn identification that proved afterwards to 
be mistaken. I admit it. I admit that in theory 
I may be wrong. [With increased grim sarcasm.^ 
I admit that in theory the original Mrs. Shawn 
may be wrong. Everything is possible, especially 
with a bully of a K. C. cross-examining you and 
a judge turning you into copy for " Punch." 
But I've got something up my sleeve that will set- 
tle the whole affair instantly, to the absolute sat- 
isfaction of both plaintiff and defendant. 

Carve. My dear fellow, why not have told us 
this exciting news earlier? 

Cyrus. Why not [glowering at Carve'\ ? 
Because I wanted you to commit yourself com- 
pletely, beyond any w^ithdrawing. I decided what 
sort of a man you were the moment I first set 
eyes on you, and when I heard of this law case I 
said to myself that I'd come forward as a witness 
but I wouldn't give my evidence away in advance. 



1S8 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

I said to myself I'd show you up once for all in 
full court. However, his lordship prevailed on me. 

Carve. Well? 

Cyrus. When my cousin and I were boys I've 
seen him with his shirt off. 

Carve. True. And he's seen you with yours 
off. 

Cyrus. Now just here [pointing to left front 
of neck, below collar^ just below his collar, my 
cousin Ham Carve had two moles close together 
— one was hairy, and the other wasn't. My 
cousin was very proud of them. 

Carve. Oh ! 

Cyrus [ferociously sarcasticl. I suppose 
you'll say you've had them removed? 

Carve [casuallyl. No. Not precisely. 

Cyrus. Can you show them? 

Carve [very casually^. Of course! 

Teooel [slapping his knee}. Great! Great! 

Cyrus [staggered but obstinately. Well, let's 
have a look at them. 

Lord Alcar [to Janef]. Then doubtless you 
are familiar with this double phenomenon, Mrs. X? 

Janet. Yes. But he isn't so proud of his 
moles now as he used to be when he was a boy. 

Lord Alcar. Now, gentlemen, you see how 
beautifully clear the situation is. By one simple 
act, we shall arrive at a definite and final result, 
and we shall have avoided all the noise and scan- 



ACT IV 139 

dal of a public trial. Mr. X, will you oblige us 
very much by taking your collar off? 

Janet \_jumping up]. Please! There is just 
one little thing [^o Carve]. Wait a moment, 
dear. [To Ebag.~\ Mr. Ebag, how many of 
those pictures did you sell to Mr. Texel? 

Ebag. Fifteen. 

Janet. And you made a profit of over four 
hundred pounds on each. 

Tearl [boisterously]. [Laughing to Ebag.] 
You did.? 

Janet. Fifteen times four hundred, that makes 

— how much does it make ? 

Texel. Six thousand, madam. Thirty thou- 
sand dollars. Great ! 

Janet [to Ebag]. Don't you think we deserve 
some of that, as it were? 

Ebag. Madam, I shall be delighted to pay you 
£5,400. That will be equivalent to charging you 
a nominal commission of ten per cent. 

Janet. Thank you. 

Carve. I won't touch a penny of their wretched 
money. 

Janet [sweetly]. I wouldn't dream of asking 
you to, dearest. I shall touch it. Goodness 
knows what street we shall be in after this affair 

— and with my Brewery shares gone simply all to 

pieces ! Now, dearest, you can take it off. 

[She resumes her seat.] 

Carve [lightly] . I'm hanged if I do ! 



140 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Lord Alcar, But, my dear Mr. X. 

Carve [lightly~\. I'm dashed if I take my col- 
lar off! 

Cyrus \_triumphant^. Ha! I knew it! 

Carve. Why should I offer my skin to the in- 
spection of two individuals in whom I haven't the 
slightest interest? They've quarrelled about me, 
but is that a reason why I should undress myself? 
Let me say again — I've no desire whatever to 
prove that I am Ham Carve. 

Lord Alcar. But surely to oblige us immensely, 
Mr. X, you will consent to give just one extra 
performance of an operation which in fact you 
accomplish 365 times every year without any dis- 
astrous results ! 

Carve. I don't look at it like that. Already 
my fellow-citizens, expressing their conviction that 
I was a great artist, have buried me in West- 
minster Abbey, not because I was a great artist, 
but because I left a couple of hundred thousand 
pounds for a public object. And now my fellow- 
citizens, here assembled, want me to convince them 
that I am a great artist by taking my collar off. 
I won't do it. I simply will not do it. It's too 
English. If any person wishes to be convinced 
that I'm an artist and not a mountebank, let himi 
look at my work [pointing vaguely to picture^ 
because that's all the proof that / mean to offer. 
If he is blind or short-sighted, I regret it, but my 
neck isn't going to help him. 



ACT IV 141 

Texel. Brilliant! Then we shall have the 
trial, after all ! 

. . Cyrus. Yes, but your " brilliant " friend will 
be on his way to South America before then. 

Janet [sweetly to Cyrus^. I assure you it's 
quite true about those moles. That's why he 
wears high collars. 

Cyrus [grimly]. No doubt! . . . [Re- 
peating.] Nevertheless he'll be on his way to 
South America. 

Carve [gaily]. Or Timbuctoo. 

Cyrus [significantly]. Unless you're stopped. 

Carve. And who's going to stop me? All the 
laws of this country added together can't make me 
take my collar off if I don't want to. 

Cyrus. What about arresting you for bigamy? 
What about Holloway? I fancy at Holloway 
they have a short method with people who won't 
take their collars off. 

Carve, Well, that will only be another proof 
that the name of this island is England. It will 
be telegraphed to the continent that in order to 
prove to herself that she possessed a great artist, 
England had to arrest him for bigamy and shove 
him into prison. . . . Characteristic ! Char- 
acteristic ! 

Lord Alcar [who has moved across to Janet]. 
Mrs. X, can you 

Janet [rising to Carve winningly]. Now — 
Ham. You're only laying up trouble for yourself, 



142 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

and for me too! Do please think of the trial. 
You know how shy you are, and how you tremble 
at the mere thought of a witness-box. 

Cyrus. I can believe it. 

Carve [smiling at Janet^. I've got past shy- 
ness. I think it was the visit of my fine stalwart 
sons yesterday that cured me of shyness. I doubt 
if I shall ever be shy any more. 

Janet [appeaUngly~\ . Dearest, to please me ! 

Carve [curt now for the first time, with a flash 
of resentment^. No! 

Janet [after a slight pause; hurt, and startled; 
with absolute conviction, to Lord Leonard Alcar^. 
It's no use. He's made up his mind! 

Ebag. I have an idea that I can persuade 

Janet [hotly}. Excuse me. You can't. 

Ebag. I have an idea I can. But — [hesi- 
tates} the fact is, not in the presence of ladies. 

Janet. Oh! If that's all. [Walks away in 
a huff.] 

Ebag [to Janet~\. My deepest apologies! 
[Lord Leonard Alcar shows Janet out through 
door L.] 

Texel. Well, well ! What now? 

Ebag [to Carve~\. You remember Lady Alice 
Rowf ant ? 

Carve [taken aback~\. That doesn't concern 
you. 

Ebag [ignoring this answer}. Pardon me if I 
speak plainly. You were once engaged to marry 



ACT IV 143 

Lady Alice Rowfant. But, a few days before 
your valet died, you changed your mind and left 
her in the lurch, in Spain. Lady Alice Rowfant 
is now in England. She has been served with a 
subpoena to give evidence at the trial. And if 
the trial comes on she will have to identify you and 
tell her story in court. [Pause.'l Are you go- 
ing to put her to this humiliation.^ [Carve walks 
about. Then he gives a gesture of surrender. ~\ 

Carve. The artist is always beaten! [^With 
an abrupt movement he pulls undone the bow of 
his necJitie.~\ 

[The Curtain falls for a few seconds.^ 

SCEXE 11. 

Carve is attempting to re-tie his necktie. Lord 
Leonard Alcar is coming away from door^ 
back. Janet enters from door l. 

Janet [under emotion to Carve~\. Then you've 
done it! [Carve ignores her.^ 

Lord Alcar. Yes, and I feel like a dentist. 

Janet. You've sent them all away. 

Lord Alcar. I thought you'd like me to. Mr. 
Ebag took charge of Mr. Texel. Your cousin 
Cyrus was extremely upset. 

Janet. What did she say.? 

Lord Alcar. Who say.? 
..Janet. Lady Alice Rowfant of course. Oh! 
You needn't pretend ! As soon as ]\Ir. Ebag 
asked me to go out I knew he'd got her up his 
sleeve. [Weeps slightly. ~\ 



144 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 

Lord Alcar [very sympatheticallyl. My dear 
young lady, what is the matter? 

Janet [her utterance disturbed hy sobs, indi- 
cating Carve~\. He'd do it for her, but he 
wouldn't do it for me ! 

Lord Alcar. I assure you Lady Alice Rowfant 
has not been here. 

Janet. Honest ? 

Lord Alcar. No ! The mere mention of her 
name was sufficient. 

Janet. That's even worse! [Rushing across to 
Carve and pettishly seizing his necktie. Carve 
submits.^ Here! Let me do it — for goodness' 
sake! Great clumsy! [Lord Leonard Alcar ap- 
proaches. Janet is still tearful. To Lord Leon- 
ard Alcar, as she ties the necktie.^ Somehow I 
don't mind crying in front of you, because you're 
so nice and fatherly. 

Lord Alcar. Well, if I'm so fatherly,' may I 
venture on a little advice to you two? [To 
Carve.'] You said you didn't want to be Ham 
Carve. DonH be Mr. Ham Carve. Let Ham 
Carve continue his theoretical repose in the Abbey, 
and you continue to be somebody else. It will 
save a vast amount of trouble and nobody will 
be a penny the worse. Leave England — unob- 
trusively. If you feel homesick arrange to come 
back during a general election and you will be 
{absolutely unnoticed. You have money. If you 



ACT IV 14f6 

need more, I can dispose of as many new pictures 
las you like to send. 

Janet. I don't want him to paint any more 
pictures. 

Lord Alcar. But he will. 

Janet. I suppose he will. Why is it.? As if 
we hadn't had enough bother already through this 
art business ! 

Lord Alcar. Yes. But artists are like that, 
you know. 

Janet [affectionately reproachful, to Carver~\. 
Child! Look how nicely I've tied it for you 
[shakes hirn^. Whatever are you dreaming 
about.? 

Carve [after glancing in mirror; reflectively~\. 
There's only one question. Last time they buried 
me in the Abbey. What will they do with me next 
time? 



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